


The Best Bad Influence

by BadaBingBoogeyTheSecond



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: 1970s, AU like whoa, Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Friends With Benefits to something more, Gen, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Rick is 28, Rock and Roll, Science Fiction, Slow Burn, Stan is 19, The Flesh Curtains, cosmic horror, flagrant use of illegal weapons, friends to partners, partners to friends with benefits, stanchez, yet cannon compliant (sorta), young!Rick Sanchez, young!Stanley Pines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadaBingBoogeyTheSecond/pseuds/BadaBingBoogeyTheSecond
Summary: Stanley Pines, aspiring treasure hunter and part time thief, is on his last leg. He still remains hopeful that he can soon return to his estranged home, but his prospects are dwindling fast. His latest, and possibly final, end goal is a treasure buried in Joshua Tree National Park, CA. On his way there a fateful run in with some Pacific Crest Trail hikers leads him to a late night jam session at the abode of some random rubes. Among these rubes if an enigmatic musician whose tantalizingly familiar world of sci-fi insanity and music threaten to draw Stan off world and onto a path he couldn't possibly have expected.





	1. The Treasure Hunter

Written by BadabingBoogeyTheSecond 

Edited by Nanianela

For a car that was only seven years old the red chassis, white roofed and chrome detailed 1965 Cadillac El Diablo coupe de ville had seen a lot. After two years in the hands of a small business owner it had been sold to a pawn shop on Glass Shards Beach, New Jersey, to help pay for a deposit on a new townhouse in the nicer section of town. By 1970 it had been a steady presence for two trips down to Florida to see Bubbe and Zayde, overseen driving lessons for twin boys with drastically different driving styles, had speedily rushed a tall, thin, dark haired woman to the hospital so that she could give birth to a little boy named Shermie, and had delicately transported something called a “perpetual motion device” to the science fair at the local high school.

In the fall of 1970 its white leather steering wheel had absorbed the bitter tears of a seventeen year old freshly severed from the family tree. By the summer of 1971 El Diablo had crisscrossed six states as its new, young owner zipped from one local legend promising wealth and fame to the next hot lead. By August 15, 1972 the mission of the driver had not changed, but much of the El Diablo had. Still heading west, its pristine red leather interior, so delicately cared for by the pawn shop owner, was now covered in varying layers of dust, dirt, sand, old food wrappers, laundry, and unmentionable spots from fast and lonely trysts. El Diablo's air conditioner had long since died by the time its driver was zooming down route 395. It hadn't had an oil change in 7,000 miles. The white plastic top of the roof was starting to chip and flake off in the wind. Most people, when they saw El Diablo, thought it was dingy. It's owner, one Stanley Pines, thought El Diablo had character to go with his own – rough, but nothing a little love and care couldn't fix. When it could be afforded.

Stanley Pines had driven all night from Carson City, Nevada, spurred on by a bitter combination of hopefulness and desperation. He was completely broke. Maybe if he fished around in the red leather seats he could come up with a few quarters or dimes, but even that was wishful thinking. He needed a break and he needed it fast. So far the only money he had brought in during the last nineteen months had been from pick pocketing drunks or pawning valuables nabbed during burglaries. His treasure hunting expeditions had all been a bust. He'd doggedly chased after one local legend to the next, hoping each time that this time would be the big one, the moneymaker. Mostly he'd been met with disappointment when the legends had turned out just to be embellished fables. Other times he had dug down only to find an empty box, some molding mementos and post cards, or this one time when he had found the remains of someone's pet. And then there were the rare instances when he had found, what he could only describe as “other things”.

Four months ago his “covert” descent into Dream Mine in Salem, Utah had unearthed some ungodly snake-like something that had chased Stan back to his car and then six miles down the road. He'd only outrun it when he had merged onto route fifteen and sped like hell down to Provo. Before that it had been his search for the lost gold of the Overland Express that had nearly cost him his life. Who knew that a boot full of plundered gold could curse an entire town and turn it and anyone who held the boot into a shrieking, clawing hell beast? As Stan had gunned the engine and outrun that particular disaster he had wished, not for the first time, that his twin brother Stanford had been with him.

Of the two of them Stanford had been the brains. His smarts, combined with his love of sci-fi mystery weirdness, would have been just what those kind of situations called for. If Stanford had been there he wouldn't have had to run away. He could have whipped up some sciencey gadget to... he didn't know, blow up the ghost or whatever that had been chasing Stanley. Stanford would have had a plan for the unexpected. He'd always had a plan for the unexpected. At least, most of the unexpected. He hadn't counted on unpredictable family members, had he.

The sweat-yellowed leather of the steering wheel crinkled under his grip. Now wasn't the time to think about that. About how he had... no, _now wasn't the time_! It was five in the morning, he hadn't slept in twenty nine hours, and he needed to come up with a plan for how he was going to get to his end destination – Quail Mountain in Joshua Tree National Park.

He needed music. The occasional slap to the cheek felt like it wasn't going to keep working for much longer. Stan fiddled with the chrome rimmed dashboard until he picked up a decent station. Music was what he needed right now. It always helped to take his mind off his troubles. But this far in the middle of Nowhere, California would he be able to even find anything good? It seemed most of the Midwest hadn't really moved past the 1950s in musical taste. God, he was sick of gospel and primitive rock and roll. Elvis had some okay songs and he could appreciate how modern rock wouldn't have really taken off without him and Fats Domino, but he was sick to death of Bill Haley and Chuck Berry. And damn him if he could stand to hear more Little Richard or the Everly Brothers. Ma Pines would have loved Kansas. It was Buddy Holy as far as sound waves could travel.

The sun was just beginning to peak over the grey horizon when Stan's persistence paid off.

“ _Out here in the fields_  
I fight for my meals  
I get my back into my living  
I don't need to fight

_To prove I'm right  
I don't need to be forgiven_ ”

The Who, “Baba O'Riley”. Yes. Stan took it as a good sign. This was really going to be it, the one where he’d make it big. Hell, this definitely called for a cigarette. Stan shifted to reach into his pocket and pull out the crumpled pack of Camel cigarettes. It was a habit he had quickly picked up after he left home. It had eaten up most of his money when he first started, but he felt that he had needed it back then. Each thin white tube packed with sweet, sweet nicotine was like a calming hand stroking down his spine. He pushed in the lighter on the dash and placed the paper stick in his lips, holding it there loosely as he rolled down the window with his left hand. Thirty seconds and he could have that first glorious pull of the day.

The song continued to play,

“ _Don't look past my shoulder_  
The exodus is here  
The happy ones are near  
Let's get together

_Before we get much older_  
Teenage wasteland  
It's only teenage wasteland  
Teenage wasteland”

As the last frantic notes of the song started to swell Stan lit the cigarette and began to inhale. The song picked up speed, and he continued to pull on the tobacco. Closing his eyes, he lifted the cigarette out of his mouth between his right index and middle fingers. The song reached it's peak and faded away. He exhaled. That beautiful nicotine hit him almost instantly and he could feel his whole body relax. The knots in his back released and his hands shook slightly on the steering wheel, but he felt more awake and happy than he had in days.

“That was The Who with “Baba O'Riley.” Said the raspy voiced radio DJ. “Up next we have something new from those smug, limey gods, Free.”

Stan’s lips split open into a wide grin, flashing all of his teeth. Now _this_ was good scheming music.

To the encouraging lyrics of Free's “All Right Now” Stan began to sketch out his next moves. Ultimately he knew what he had to do. Step one, get to Joshua Tree. Step two, drive to the east side of Quail Mountain and hike halfway up to the summit. Step three, dig up the lockbox that had been buried there by the MacCready brothers back in the 1800s. That was it. And the best part was that this time Stan hadn't heard even a whisper about any curses, monsters, ghosts or accompanying weirdness. Just a metal box buried under a rock with a tree next to it that had an X carved into the bark. Easy peasy. It was a simple plan, but that was what Stan liked so much about it. There was very little he could mess up.

Now for how his broke ass was going to make it the rest of the way to the mountain. Collectively he had a grand total of three pairs of jeans, three t-shirts, a black burglar's mask, a metal detector, a shovel, a half full kerosene lamp, a loaded gun, and a set of bed sheets he had pilfered from a motel back in Maryland. He had no cash remaining after filling the car up back in Nevada and the park was going to be at least another six hours away. But this time it would all be worth it, he just _knew_ it. It had to be. He wasn't going to get rich enough to go home via the breaking and entering he did. That barely gassed up the car, got him a bite to eat, or even an occasional motel room. But if he could make it as a treasure hunter, oh, that would be such a satisfying reunion. His bastard father wanted Stan to make the family a fortune? He'd throw a fortune in gold doubloons right in his pocked, fat face!And as for his brother; Stanford would see what a mistake it was to choose some stuffy college over Stanley and a life on the road— or their promised open seas of adventure. Stan figured he’d find it in him to forgive Stanford pretty quickly. That way they could start hunting for infamy and adventure as a team almost right away. They could finish repairing the Stan O' War, sail around the world, and be an unstoppable duo of explorers, just like the Lone Ranger and Tonto, the Green Hornet and Kato, or Batman and Robin. Maybe even as great as Lewis and Clark, or the any of the other members of the Society of the Holy Mackerel. Just like they had talked about ever since they had discovered the wreckage of that old sailboat when they were kids.

The ranks of the Society of the Holy Mackerel were filled with some of the greatest men and women of the last thousand years, and ever since one of their ceremonial fezs had been procured in the family pawn shop it had been the dream of the twins to make sure that it saw greatness once more. It _had_ been the their dream anyway.

-*-*-

It was eight in the morning when Stan pulled into the center of town in Morongo Valley. He'd somehow managed to bungle the turnoff from route 395 to state route 16 and had ended up on interstate 15. That road had taken him right into the heart of San Bernadino, well west of Joshua Tree. Precious time and gas later he'd managed to get back on track. The tank was now down to a quarter full and Stan's exhaustion was mounting.

There wasn't much to Morongo Valley, he noticed. He'd passed a post office, a town hall that doubled as a church, and a couple mom and pop stores ranging from a grocery store to a hardware store, and lastly a small patch of grass that served as the town green. El Diablo had just a tiny bit of gas left in its tank, but Stan figured that would be enough to get him to Yucca Valley. He could park the car in a commuter lot and walk the rest of the way to Quail Mountain if worse came to worse. But before he went the last leg of his journey, breakfast was in order. He was cramping so badly with hunger he could feel it ache under his collarbone.

Cruising down the middle of town Stan surveyed his options. He'd rather not lift from a locally owned place if he could help it, and he didn't think he had it in him right now to pull a dine and dash at a local diner. He was sure that his presence had already been noted as an out of towner given his New Jersey license plates. If he had to outrun the local sherif he would probably overshoot Yucca Valley, and he wasn't sure he could even do that given the poor state of his gas tank.

The morning sun caste a deep golden glow on the buildings as Stan pulled up to a stop light and spotted his target. Illuminated by the rising sun and half cast in blue shadows, the dusty and faded sign indicated a Dollar General. Perfect. Stan rolled up the windows and parked the car, the stillness after hours of rumbling behind his back a very welcome sensation. He pocketed the keys with a jingle and stepped out onto the freshly laid asphalt. The air smelled sweet; an interesting combination of dew, early autumn morning, tar, car exhaust and something arid that was solely present in desert climates. Pulling on his red letterman jacket Stan strolled confidently into the store. The bell over the door jingled merrily as he stepped in. He smiled politely at the cashier, a good looking, clean shaven guy with a plaid shirt and jeans. He wore a store apron with the tag proclaiming him to be “Henry”. Surprisingly Stan wasn't the first one in the store at such an early hour. Two men and a woman were also there perusing the wares, although their attention seemed to be solely captivated by the camping gear aisle.

All three had heavy backpacks and walking sticks, although the woman was the only one wearing a bandana to keep her shockingly blonde, sun bleached hair out of her face. The men simply let their long bangs fall into their faces while their shoulder length hair either fell in careless strands or was tied back into a short ponytail. Their legs looked like they had a permanent layer of sweat drenched dust attached to them, but physically they looked strong without an ounce of fat. They certainly looked like hippies, but hippies wouldn't have bothered mounting their lives on their backs just to enter a Dollar General. Besides, Stan hadn't seen any other cars in the parking lot. He would have definitely noticed a hippie caravan. It didn't matter in any case. They looked more likely to shoplift than a teenager wearing jeans and a red letterman with white sleeves. The clerk would be so busy keeping an eye on them that he wouldn't give a second thought to the New Jersey boy deciding which candy bars he was going to walk away with.

Stan had already pocketed a bag of toffee peanuts and a Hershey's bar when his ears picked up two of his favorite words – “free” and “food”. He listened in more intently from the next aisle over as he pretended to debate between which bag of chips he was going to choose.

“-trail magic on the way to the turn-on to the trail head.”

“Christ, I hope that they have Snickers waiting for us. All I can think about is food!” bemoaned the man whose hair was tied up in a low ponytail.

“Josh, shut up. We know. We're all there with you.” Said the other man as he picked up some kerosene and placed it in their shopping cart.

“That breakfast should sustain us for at least a little bit, though. Spice Kit and Coconuts make some crazy pancakes.” The woman chuckled. “It was generous of them to let us stay for so little in return, too.” She raised a packet of instant mashed potatoes in the air and said, “Cheers to Spice Kit and Coconuts. Two of the most hospitable trail angels this side of the Sierra Nevada.” The men returned her enthusiasm to varying degrees. They continued to pile things into their shopping cart, debating the weight and necessity of having to carry one item over the other in their backpacks.

“Spice Kit and Coconuts?” They were definitely hippies. Hippies who were walking their way around the country rather than driving. Hippies, in Stan's experience, were some of the biggest freeloading mooches he had come across on the road. He'd been stiffed on gas money three times, robbed once, and even had a girlfriend stolen by a hippie. There were two things Stan had learned quickly – don't offer anything without getting some payment up front, and beware of getting involved with hippies. On the other hand, this group knew about a place that would offer big meals and a place to sleep for next to nothing. Hippie or not it was always a good idea to chat up others who were used to life on the road. Seasoned travelers would know the closest place to crash and the cheapest place to eat. He hated to admit it to himself, but he would need to sleep at some point if he was going to have the strength to climb Quail Mountain and then dig up the treasure.

His mind made up, Stan stepped around the end cap of the aisle and approached the small group.

“Hey, folks.” He said, cheerfully raising his hand in greeting. “Couldn't help overhearing you talk there, and I couldn't help but say hi to some fellow hikers.”

The group all turned to look at Stan. Taking him in he could see it on their faces that this would be a hard sell. Unlike them he wasn't wearing anything remotely resembling hiking equipment, nor was he thin to the point of emaciated like they were. He didn't have a deep tan like they did, nor was he particularly muscular in the legs like them. And in his letterman jacket with his red converse he looked more like he had just come from a football game rather than from hiking in the wilderness for months on end.

Ponytail looked him up and down and with a neutral tone said, “You're a hiker?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” asked Blondie.

“No no, I assure you I'm a hiker too.” Stan laughed and rubbed the back of his head with his hand. “I just don't look it since I'm...” Come on Stan-y boy, you could think of something. “taking some time off from the trail.” He shrugged.

“Although I'm hoping to get back on in the near future.” Time to throw in a little bit of truth. Every lie needed a little pinch of it to work. “Actually, I'm heading to Joshua Tree National Park later today to do some hiking.”

“Oh.” Said Shoulder Length Hair. He looked at his companions before asking in an inquiring tone, “Are you section hiking the PCT?”

He had no idea what that was. “You bet I am.” Stan fibbed. “Best way to see the PCT in my opinion.”

Right as he said it he could tell it was the wrong thing to say. Matching knowing looks passed between the group, and small smiles pressed to their lips.

“What sections have you hiked so far?”

“Well, nothing further south than San Diego.” Time to tread lightly. “I'm pretty new to the idea of a long hike, actually.” He shrugged again and looked sheepish. “I'll probably not make it further than Bakersfield before I call it quits again. My job won't let me take too much time off, after all.”

One look at their faces told Stan that he better wrap this up sooner than later. “So, did you guys come from Joshua Tree?”

“Yeah.” Ponytail said.

“I'll be heading there myself this afternoon. It's been a year since I got off of the PCT, but I figured Joshua Tree would be as good a place as any to train.” Stan nodded to his battered car just visible through the glass behind the counter.

“Well,..”, said Blondie. “we wish you the best.” The group turned and started to make their way to the front of the store.

“Thanks.” Damn, he was blowing this. Come on Stan, _think_ , here. “One last thing.”

Shoulder Length Hair and Blondie stopped to look at him. Ponytail kept walking up to make his purchase with Henry.

“I overheard you say that you knew Spice Kit and Coconuts.”

“Yeah!” Blondie lit up at that. “Do you know them?”

“Not personally, but my folks did on the trail. They're still showing that famous PCT hospitality?”

“You know it.” Shoulder Length Hair said with a wink.

Stan laughed. “They didn't charge you too much to stay with them, did they?”

“Not at all! All I had to do was feed some chickens.” Blondie said delightedly. Her brown eyes were wide and engaging now that they were discussing the trail angels. “Evan and Josh had to take care of some horses. Brush them down and water them and then, ya know, free room and board for the night.”

Very interesting. “They still have that little place nearby?”

“Well, I wouldn't call their farm or a two story house in the desert little,” Blondie snickered, “but yeah. It's a beacon of hospitality to those heading to or from Joshua Tree.”

“Oh good! They're still on route 62 at least. Good for them for upgrading to something bigger.”

Neither hiker corrected Stan. Instead they just smiled sweetly and nodded their mutual interest.

“Well, you guys take care. Happy hiking!” Stan said as he casually walked out of the store. Henry didn't even give him a second glance.

So, it seemed there was a place for crunchy people to get a roof over their head and food for practically nothing. All you had to be was a hiker, eh? Stan nodded to himself. He could sell that story. After all, it would be one of the more truthful stories he had sold over the last two years.

-*-*-

The needle had been hovering over E for the last three miles and Stan was starting to get nervous. His eyes were strained from peering at the glaring horizon and the harsh light bouncing off of yellow sands, looking for any sign of a white, two story home. There hadn't been much sign of anything aside from scrub brush, rocks and sand for miles. The sun wasn't being any help either, with it beating down sizzling rays that flashed painfully in his eyes as he tried to spot anything that might indicate civilization.

The lack of sleep was starting to catch up to him, and once or twice he'd nearly run off the road into the ditch. His eyes felt scratchy and dry, his mouth was parched and sticky from his sugary candy breakfast, and his left arm was painfully sunburned from resting on the open window. Why hadn't he thought to grab a water bottle when he had been in the Dollar General. The sugar had given him a nice spike of energy at first, but now as the sugar rush ran out he felt worn down and sluggish. He should have nabbed something more substantial, like some beef jerky or trail mix... but what did he know about feeding himself? Not like anyone had taught him, or had eased him into it. It was Ma Pine’s hearty beef stew one night, and then an empty stomach and disownment the next.

El Diablo made it another half mile before the engine finally sputtered and died. Not bothering to pull entirely off the road, Stan let the momentum carry the car as far as it could before the vehicle coasted to a slow stop. He couldn't believe this. He wished he’d never made that wrong turn a while back. God, he was so _stupid!_ He let his forehead bump against the steering wheel and hissed a defeated breath through his clenched teeth. He had just meant to close his eyes for a second to gather his thoughts, but a wave of absolute exhaustion overtook him and before he knew what was happening he was asleep with his arms pillowing his head on the wheel.

Most of the day must have passed because when Stan next surfaced to consciousness the sun was well past its zenith. His back was killing him. At least he felt somewhat rested if no less discouraged. Stan stood next to the car trying to stretch out the kinks in his spine and took another look down the road. With the sun out of his eyes and the silvery mirages somewhat abated, the teen could just make out a big white blob. It was too far away for his nearsighted vision to distinguish clearly, but it definitely didn't look like a natural shape. There was nothing for it. He'd have to put the car in drive and walk it down the road. No way was he going to leave his home on the side of the highway for someone to come along and mess with.

A mile later and Stan could now make out the clear outline of a square, white washed two story house. “Oh thank Moses in heaven.” he gasped out. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up if he didn't have the house beckoning him closer. It was easy enough to put the car in drive and walk along beside it, his right hand reaching into the car to grip and direct the steering wheel while his left pushed against the open driver side door in front of him. It wasn't the distance itself that was even the problem. The sun was getting lower now, but its last rays beat down with pulsing brutality. The dry California air had pretty much sucked any remaining moisture out of his mouth that the sugar hadn't already dried up. The steady “slap slap slap” of his Converse as they rhythmically came down on the hot tarmac kept pace with his inhales and exhales. Any remaining skin not covered by cloth was going to be a tender red by the time the sun set behind the mountains.

It had to have been at least five thirty in the evening by the time Stan, exhausted by the heat and dizzy from lack of water, rolled El Diablo to a stop in the entrance to a long dirt driveway. Small twin puffs of dust flew up into the air as the car came to a complete halt. Stan wasted no time. He put the car in park, grabbed his bugout bag, slung it over his shoulder, slammed the door shut, locked it, and trudged up the path. Walking right up into the blessed shade of the porch he gave four short raps on the doorframe and set his bag at his feet. When the middle aged couple saw the poor, sweat soaked and sunburnt man panting on their welcome mat they didn't even ask any questions before ushering him into the kitchen. He was clearly about to keel over and couldn't possibly pose them much threat. Besides, this was the country. They had a shotgun handy if he proved them wrong.

-*-*-

It didn't seem like he was going to prove them wrong. This Roger person seemed like such a nice young man. He had been on his way to Joshua Tree to prepare for the next leg of his trek along the Pacific Crest Trail when his car had run out of gas. Young people could be so absent minded sometimes. And of course they would be willing to provide him with room a board for the night. He had, after all, heard about them from other PCT hikers, and who would Coconuts and Spice Kit be if they didn't help out a fellow hiker? He sounded capable enough at fixing things given his career as a mechanic in Phoenix, so all he needed to do to earn his keep was to fix a small section of the horse enclosure and feed the pigs. Poor thing had been about to fall over when he had shown up, so the less strenuous the job the better. He'd need his strength when he got to Joshua Tree, after all.

-*-*-

That had to have been the easiest sell he had ever made. Maybe he should play the “honest” and “dying of thirst” cards more often, thought Stan. He'd gotten more than he could have ever expected from these suckers! A free can of gas for the car, two meals and a cot out on the porch for the night was a sweet exchange for nailing some boards in place and slopping some pigs. Sure, he had to share the space with another person who had already made arrangements to stay with the “trail angels”, or whatever, but it was still far better than sleeping in the car. He'd have to remember this trick in the future. Man, hiker-hippies had it good.

“Note to self,” Stan said aloud to himself as he hammered some nails into the heavy wooden planks surrounding the dusty horse enclosure. “Hiker: the perfect disguise.” He stepped back to survey his work. One of the nails at the right corner of the fence was only halfway in and bent in the middle, but it looked like it would hold. Probably. Sure, it wouldn't withstand a direct kick from one of the ornery, brown horses mulling around in the enclosure, but what were the chances of that happening in the first place? Now for the pigs. And then, oh then, a good home cooked meal. Something he had been treasuring since his departure from Glass Shards Beach. Ma Pines wasn't the best of cooks, her specialty being an over breaded baked haddock, but it was still home cooked. Stan smiled as he placed the hammer back into the mud box and walked over to the barn. He looked forward to this evening's meal. It was a reminder of how close he was to finally going home.

-*-*-

The sun had set on the farm and the deep blue darkness was growing as Stan hung up the slop buckets next the coiled black hose on the side of the barn. He should probably rinse them out, but.. eh. He could claim ignorance of farm practices if pressed. As it stood he was sore all over, sunburnt to a crisp, and absolutely ready for food and then bed. Tomorrow by noon he would be on the side of Quail Mountain with a million dollars in his hands.

He sniffed the cooling air, hoping to catch the smell of cooking coming from the kitchen in the back.

His nose picked up sage brush, dirt, horse and pig crap, and... “Mmmm.” Something smelled good, and it wasn't food. The Beatles or Jimi Hendrix would probably call it something like “mind food”, but Stan knew it by its more common names.

Entering the back of the house after removing his borrowed galoshes on the porch, Stan grabbed the plate of fried chicken, spiced rice and beans left for him on the kitchen countertop. The young man leaned against the edge of the sink and dug in with gusto. It was a savory delight of spices and beautiful textures, and Stan didn't realize he had even closed his eyes until they snapped open in absolute shock when the first blaring notes rocked through his eardrums.

He snapped his head up and looked at what must have been the source of the noise. Above him the floor was literally vibrating with sound. Whoever was rocking out on the piano knew their way effortlessly over the ivory. The electric guitar was screeching an accompanying harmony while the bass dropped heavily through the floorboards and into the marrow of Stan's bones.

“Well damn. Who knew these granola munching freaks knew anything about good music.” Stan mumbled to himself.

Stanley Pines had never missed a house party in high school and he wasn't about to put a black mark on his perfect record. He shoveled the rest of the bean juice drenched chicken into his mouth and dumped the dishes into the sink, only taking a moment to run a gush of water over them. His bag was still sitting next to the dining room table where had dropped it when he had collapsed into a chair upon arrival to the homestead. From it's depths he fished out an as-yet unopened handle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey before making his way into the central hall and up the stairs. Experienced socialites like him knew that you never come to a party empty handed.

The sweet, skunky smell of high quality Mary Jane was steadily seeping down the upstairs hallway and down the steps to greet Stan as he ascended the staircase. He inhaled deeply through his nose and mouth, savoring the heady aroma. It was some dank shit, he could tell. His heart beating rapidly in excitement, Stan pushed the door open to what he thought must have been a study of sorts.

Years later Stan still wouldn't know how to describe what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't what had flooded his vision upon opening that heavy, smoke framed wooden door on the second floor in 1972 Morongo Valley, CA. The lame middle aged couple he had met this afternoon were both tearing through their instruments like nothing he had ever seen. Spice Kit (was her name Julia Wilde?) was worrying a hole into her bottom lip as her fingers flew over the frets of her fiery red and orange Kent Polaris II Sunburst guitar. Coconuts (Sam? Stan was starting to feel bad about not remembering their real names) was beating a steady downtempo of E major on his Framus Star bass. Spice Kit had this look on her face that said she wanted to beat someone to death with the body of her guitar. Coconuts, in almost complete contrast, had his eyes closed as he sat on amp plugged into his guitar, strumming along to the beat with a look like he had a deep hurt he was trying to heal.

The man on the piano was something else entirely. His bluish-white hair made wild from the sweat pouring off of his face belied his true age, which was revealed when he threw back his head as he ripped a glissando up the keys. Not a single wrinkle graced his wide, brown eyes or tanned pointed features except for slight lines around his lips where a smirk obviously sat on a regular basis. He was thin as a pole, and his baby blue button up shirt was soaked with sweat, especially under his arms which flailed manically across his instrument. As Stan walked into the room the piano man's head swooped down to the keys. His index fingers tapped frantically at the middle of the keyboard, his eyes lost in his own world. His head was bent so close to the keys that his sharp nose was almost touching the hammering ivory. Then, just as suddenly, he whipped his head back in an arc flicking droplets of sweat into the air. The beads hypnotically caught the light from the wall sconces as they descended to the floor. Piano Man's eyes rolled back into his head, his eyelids closed and his mouth hung open in a wordless gasp as the song climbed several octaves into the treble cleft, and then fell like a rock into the bass cleft.

From his modest seat on chair against the wall of the room Stan could clearly feel that Piano Man was driving this storm of sound. He had chosen this song and the electric guitar was his begrudging squire, while the bass directed his troops. When Stan pulled a burning gulp of whiskey he knew what and who he was drinking to – this noise pollution and the man at the piano commanding it.

The end of the song got Stan to his feet instantaneously. Trying to compensate for the thunderous audience that the ensemble deserved, Stan whooped, clapped vigorously and grinned his enthusiasm with all of his teeth. That had been incredible! He'd never been to a real concert before, but he was sure that any paying audience would have packed Whiskey A Go Go to see the performance he had been treated to.

Fishing the lighter he kept in his back right pocket Stan waved the tiny flame around like a dork.

Spice Kit and Coconuts smiled bashfully as they set their instruments down. Coconuts, dabbing the sweat from his face with a rag he produced out of his left pocket, was all grins and red cheeks. Spice Kit had a knowing look on her face like she was used to the adulation, but was too cool to make a big deal out of it. Stan reached over to Spice Kit, the closest musician to him, and enthusiastically shook the whiskey.

“For luck, inspiration, and respect!” Stan said.

Spice Kit wordless took the whiskey and gulped down a hefty mouthful. The liquor was passed around the group. A sizable joint followed in short order, burning lower and lower as the ensemble caught their breath and tuned up their instruments. Piano Man took his time on the marijuana when it made its way to him. He smoked it like a cigarette – wedged between his fore finger and middle finger where he took long inhales with a moment or two to enjoy the mouth feel and the burn in his lungs. Out of everyone his exhalations produced the biggest clouds.

“You guys know any Allman Brothers?” asked Stan.

Piano Man chuckled as he handed the burning joint to the young man to his right. It was already three quarters gone.

“Any particular song you have in mind?” Piano Man's eyes shown with interest despite their advanced inebriation. He had a higher pitched voice than Stan had been expecting.

“Well,” Stan had to think. “Blue Sky” had just been released in February, but he had “At Fillmore East” on the brain after that mind bending concert he had just witnessed.

“Statesboro Blues.” Stan took a deep hit. Whether he was trying to impress Piano Man or just achieve the same musical clarity the group possessed he wasn't sure. Stan held the smoke in his lungs until it burned, before he exhaled in one continuous, calm stream. “That or “Midnight Rider”.”

“Ah,” said Piano Man. He leaned forward and propped his pointy elbows onto his knees. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his biceps. Stan noted that he had a tattoo of what looked like an elongated “8” embellished with some kind of equation on his left forearm. “Nothing earlier than 1970, huh?”

Something about the way he said that really rankled Stan. Like this skinny nerd with his Einstein hair and khaki pants was somehow better than him. “If you're referring to The Velvet Underground,” Stan lifted his eyebrow and smirked back, “I wouldn't be opposed to hearing “One Way Out”.”

“Fine,” Piano Man answered, “but it's going to cost you.” He took a long pull from the whiskey as it was handed to him by Coconuts.

“We'll start with another hit from that joint you're canoeing.” He held out his right hand to Stan. His slender fingers were spindly and lengthy with well formed callouses capping each tip. His nails were trimmed down all the way to the quick. “And another shot of that shit whiskey you brought.” He sloshed back the handle again, the corners of his lips smirking around the glass rim of the bottle.

Stan had to laugh. This nerd with his tacky pants and generic button up shirt was going to challenge him, a long time radio fan and rock enthusiast, to a musical dick measuring contest? And on top of that he was going to take two fingers of his whiskey at a time?

“Whatever you say, Killer.” Stan took a second, equally deep hit before finally passing the weed back to the lanky jack ass.

“Nah, boychick.” Piano Man's smile took on a sharp edge as he received the joint back. “I'm all Jimmy Page.”

Spice Kit and Coconuts continued to tune up their instruments, content for the moment to listen to the exchange. The pianist's svelte figure leaned back against his instrument, crossing his right leg over his left as he thread his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes as he sucked on the joint pinched between his lips. His back pressing down on the keys situated behind his lower back. For a long moment the smokey air was filled with a discordant clang as the piano protested to its casual mistreatment.

“So,” Piano Man said as the notes subsided, twin snakes of smoke curling up from his nostrils. The joint swung dangerously at the corner of his mouth, but he didn't allow it to escape. He reopened his eyes and held Stan's gaze for a few seconds as if challenging him to look away. Stan's gaze didn't flinch. In fact, he merely gave Piano Man an indulgent lopsided smile and a raised eyebrow through lidded eyes as if to say, “By all means, do continue.” Both grinned at one another like they were sharing some inside joke.

“You're a rocker, huh?”

 

 


	2. The Musical Maverick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whiskey-plans take shape and advanced technology performs on the roof of the barn.

Written by Badabingboogeythesecond 

Edited by Nanianela 

Stanley prided himself on a couple of things. His tough, square jawline that could take a direct punch, his large calloused hands which could _deliver_ a direct punch, his thick brown hair, his staggering charisma, his ability to drink anyone under the table,... okay, more than a couple things. But perhaps above all else Stanley knew his rock and roll. He had listened to every record that came to the pawn shop, the soundtrack to his preteen years had been an ensemble of fuzzy rock stations from New York City, and he had even shoplifted a copy of _The Kinks Are the Green Preservation Society_ to show his brother what good music was. He hoped Ford had at least kept this particular record when the rest of Stan's stuff had been put in the dumpster. The first time he had played it had also been the first time that he and Ford had gotten high. Heh, they had eaten an entire quart of strawberry ice cream and Ford had laughed at Stan's horrible puns until he'd nearly wet his pants.

This Rick guy, though. He could tell you who mixed a song, how many takes it took to get the layered effects, who played at what venue and when, and if Stan was even hearing him correctly, he had once met David Bowie at Club 82!

“Roger Langley.” Stan had said, reaching over to offer his hand to the pianist. His long, thin fingers wrapped around Stan's burly hand in a slightly too tight grip. He was smiling nonchalantly, but his tone belied the edge of a patronizing sneer as he replied back, “Rick Sanchez.”

Fueled by live music, weed, liquor and amiable conversation, a timelessness took hold in the studio. Stan forgot about his sun scalded skin and his endlessly long day of driving and just enjoyed the moment. Rick, Spice Kit and Coconuts had an easiness between them that spoke of a long friendship. A long, turbulent friendship. Stan was somewhat relieved to see that the pianist didn't seem to hold back on anyone. He'd talk shit to Spice Kit, and contrary to the well-meaning persona she radiated, she could redirect a verbal slap right back at the lanky, blue haired freak. Said freak would then turn to Coconuts, throw an insult at him in some creative way, but the other man would always have a smooth reply to lay the insult out flat. Most of the conversation orbited around the direction rock music was taking (Spice Kit, Coconuts and Rick all having wildly different views on this), and who had seen who play and where recently. He was tired and sore, but Stan couldn't remember the last time he had been this content. He'd struck up an animated conversation with Spice Kit about the Woodstock Festival, a subject he had instantly developed an intense interest in after hearing it talked about in a record store back in Jersey. Coconuts had recounted some crazy stories about their time following The Who Tour for six months in '68. At the moment Rick and Stan were locked in a conversation about the difference between mid 60s rock versus the early 70s.

Their hosts had excused themselves from the room at some point during Stan's discussion with Rick, but their exit had gone almost unnoticed by the pair sitting at, and next to, the upright piano. The lanky musician's fingers had continued to slide across the keys as they conversed, pausing every now and then to take a shot or a toke. Stan sat to the left on one of the many amps crammed into the room - a Marshall system was in the back left corner of the room, a few amps said Matamp, and then there was the Fender that was the perfect height for Stan to sit on while resting his forearm on the end of the keyboard.

The duo's discussion of the new Boston-based band Aerosmith had been in full swing, and neither had managed more than a brief goodbye to the couple before picking up the topic again and passing the joint around. With the liberal ingestion of liquor and marijuana Rick was in sharp contrast from the condescending dick he had been up to that point. With his blood steaming with whiskey he had become wobbly and talkative. Granted he still seemed like he was keeping his cards close to his chest, but Stan had the impression that if Rick kept drinking he would eventually divulge something really juicy.

He knew that neither of them would remember much in the morning, but it simply wasn't in Stan's nature to not press an advantage. Besides, he was having fun, and he'd never come across someone as passionate about rock and roll as this guy was. And if Rick happened to let slip some insider information about any upcoming tours or something, maybe he could get Stan free tickets. And so they kept talking, not even realizing what time it was until Coconuts, in his usual quiet way, told them to take it outside. It was well after midnight and he and Spice Kit needed to get some sleep.

Stan had decided pretty quickly that he was going to be damned if he let Rick outmatch him with either weed or whiskey. The two had been going shot for shot for a while, but at some point they had both reached that wondrous stage of inebriation where the posturing, conning and bluffing took second seat to the camaraderie. Grinning at Rick, Stan raised his hands and smacked his palms down on his knees in finality. “Let's take this outside!”

The intent was there, but trying to stand up was another matter. From his position on an amp by the piano it took a few stumbling steps for Stan to gain his footing and get upright. Rick was seated at the bench of his instrument and at the request he pushed himself up with a grunt, the keys under his hands clanging in displeasure.

Stan wasn't sure how they managed to get into the back porch, but he distinctly remembered Rick nearly careening down the stairs at one point. Mercifully Stan had been only two steps ahead of him so the other taller man had just been able to fall forward about a foot before his downward trajectory was stopped by Stan's broad back. Another small mercy was that Stan, being built like a brick house, wasn't so easily knocked over by a man weighing maybe one hundred fifty pounds of elbows and knees. Even when his vision was swimming in and out of focus, Stanley Pines held his ground.

The outside desert air was bracingly cold and fresh. It was a dramatic change from the admittedly stuffy studio they had been chilling in for the last few hours. At some point the cots he and Rick would be crashing on that night had been set up by their hosts, complete with a thin pillow and two blankets a piece. It looked heavenly to Stan, but the blood thrumming and liquor tantalizing his brain told him that sleep would have to wait. He still had that incredible buzz of electrified music crawling under his skin. Even if he put his head down on the pillow he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. For now he'd just have to ride it out before he could even consider hitting the sack.

Stan's fingers, numb and clumsy from the alcohol, pulled the pack of Camels from his pocket. With practiced ease he lit one with a lighter he magically produced from his person. With the first pull of the night he leaned his shoulder against the white washed post of the porch and just watched the moths flick back and forth in front of the exterior scones. God, he felt great. Light headed from the nicotine, mind calm from the weed and body loose from the liquor, he felt like he could just float up to the moon. Granted he knew he was going to crash hard tonight, but it was so worth it. Without a second thought he handed the pack to Rick, who took the cigarettes and popped a stick into his mouth. Poor guy didn't seem able, or capable, of finding a lighter so Stan handed him his black Bic.

Stan snickered at his companion as the other man fumbled with the lighter. The first time he tried to light the cigarette he dropped the lighter on the porch. Reaching down to pick it up he'd almost pitched forward over the edge and into the dirt. After straightening himself up on his wobbly legs it took him at least three more tries before his thumb hit the right trajectory and a tiny orange flame flicked into existence. Stan watched him inhale the smoke, smirking as the other man's eyes rolled back into his head as he took extra long pulls on the tobacco. “What a lightweight,” Stan jeered silently. He took to his own cigarette again, enjoying the feel of the smoke as it rolled down into his lungs and expanded to fill his chest. A little curl of pride glowed in his throat at his own ability to hold his liquor. He'd gone head to head with a trio of skilled musicians and still managed to keep himself upright and relatively coordinated. He wondered how Rick was faring now that he'd had some nicotine to wake him up.

As if sensing that he was being watched Rick's wide eyes popped open. The drunk, glazed expression had seemingly all but disappeared. Once again manic energy was coursing through the other man's limbs. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he rapidly smoked the cigarette down to the filter. Without even thinking Stan wordlessly pulled another stick from the pack and handed it to him. Taking it without comment, the musician smoothly lit the cigarette in one try, this time taking in the poison at a much slower pace.

A companionable silence had taken hold as the two strangers smoked their cigarettes on the splintery, white washed porch. Stan was just about done with his first stick and was considering excusing himself for the warm comfort of the cot, when the pianist jerked his head over in the direction of the barn. He seemed completely awake now. Wobbly, but just raring to burn off some energy.

“Meet you over there.” Not waiting for Stan, he trotted out past the fringe of the yellow light from the porch and disappeared under the canopy of navy blue night. Stan could just make out his dark outline as he made his way to the large building at the edge of the clearing.

Where this guy's energy came from, Stan had no idea. He'd been about to keel over one second, and then suddenly after two cigarettes he was practically jogging on a weaving path to the other side of the farm yard. Personally Stan was pleasantly buzzed and pretty high up there, but nonetheless he stumbled after him, half listening to the words that continued to stream out of Rick's mouth. Sounded like he had moved on from David Bowie and was now ruminating on Jimi Hendrix.

“Ol-ly-ympic Studios in 1967, that was- was the place to b-be.” He continued to monologue as he pushed open the heavy double doors of the barn. Flicking on the lights Rick strode into the dusty, hay infused air completely unbothered by the occasional fat fly that buzzed past. The two horses looked up at the intruding bipeds with dazed lethargy.

“Hendrix was a musical pro-o-digy, no question.” He piped up, certain that the other man had followed him into the barn and was listening attentively.

“True story.” Stan said as he weaved a path into the blindingly bright entrance of the barn.

“You know about Eddie Kramer?”

“The engineer? I know he worked with the Beatles and The Kinks.”

“Heh eeuhehe!” Even Rick's laugh came out with a stutter. “He didn't just-j-just work with them, my man. He molded their songs so that they were audible!”

He then went off on another rambling, stuttering tale of how the Hendrix's debut album had been mixed. He spoke with wide flailing arm movements, gesticulating frantically in excitement as his eyes darted here and there as if they were taking in the experience to the fullest. He talked like he had actually been there, going on in great detail about the different takes that “Are You Experienced” had involved and the tricks Eddie Kramer had used to get the final version of Jimi Hendrix and Chas Chandler's “Purple Haze”. It was absolutely enthralling to listen to, and Stan found himself desperately wishing that it were all true.

Bullshitters were nothing new to Stan. Hell, he considered himself to be one of the more accomplished ones to be walking the Earth at present. He prided himself on an ability to read a person with relative ease, but with this guy he had absolutely no idea what to think. His knowledge of artists and their works was spot on. Even his expertise of the careers of various musicians was factual. Stan could vouch for nearly everything he said, having a long and passionate history with rock and roll himself. But it all begged the question what someone so familiar with the music industry would be doing in Morongo Valley, CA staying with a bunch of hippies! Maybe he was just a super fan. Stan could certainly see that with the way he dressed, all geeked up in dark brown khakis and a fuckin' buttoned up sky blue shirt. But if he was always that talented on the piano maybe he himself was an emerging star. Maybe he was just a nerdy version of Bob Dylan. Maybe he was on his way to San Francisco to play at Fillmore West - to dazzle his audience and enrage parents across the country with shredding power ballads and lyrics about societal truths. That would be so cool.

For a moment Stan drew deeper into his mind, pulling another cigarette out and lighting it. What would it be like to follow a musician? To just get swept up in their world of glitz and to feast nightly on their audible nourishment. What would it be like to just give up on his current mission and follow a path down the rocky, unpredictable world of his musical passion. To sleep in the car during the day and haul equipment for a band in the evening and into the night. He could certainly embrace that kind of life and even see himself thriving in it. If nothing else, it would be a more reliable and steady gig than what he had going on now.

Speaking of Rick, what the hell was he _doing_? In the time it had taken for Stan to sink into his own thoughts the bean pole had climbed onto the side of the closest horse stall and was crouching down like he was going to... _oh my god_!

With startlingly spontaneity the lean figure of the other man had launched himself into the air. For a frightening second he hung in midair ten feet above the hay strewn, hard packed ground in utter defiance of gravity. His mouth was twisted into a grimace of concentration as his addled brain seemed to valiantly calculate the possibly fatal misstep of its vessel. Just as he seemed to have passed the point of no return he grabbed onto the length of rope that was hanging down from the peak of the rafters. Swinging in a wide arc, his legs splayed out at odd angles from his twisting torso, he pushed his toes off of the barn wall as it swept up to meet him. Rick arced in a ridiculous display of flailing limbs before he got himself centered on the rope. Like a blue haired spider monkey the enigma scurried up the frayed rope showing surprising upper body strength for so someone so rail thin. In moments he had disappeared over the edge of the loft.

When Stan's brain finally realized that he wouldn't need to break a crazy man's fall, he threw his head back, almost tripping over his feet, and broke into peels of laughter. This guy was a trip! One moment he was going on about the shenanigans that went down in the outskirts of London at Olympic Studios, the next moment the tweaker was scaling a rope up into the hay loft. Unreal

Stan crushed the last remains of his cigarette out in the dirt and called, “Hey! Wait for me!”

Spying a ladder conveniently placed in the center of the floor leading up to the loft Stan clumsily ascended, the glass neck of the whiskey handle in the one hand and the other gripping the smooth wood of the ladder in the other. Nearly to the top of the ladder Stan peaked over the bales of hay that littered the low space. The gentle steep of the roof left only about three feet of space in which to crawl forward between the rectangular bales of alfalfa. Rick was nowhere to be seen. Stan's confusion only lasted a few seconds before his half deaf brain picked up the tell tale sound of an electric guitar in the air. It was soft and tinny like it was coming from a miniature speaker somewhere at the back of the loft.

Like a half drowned sailor crawling over a rocky outcropping toward a siren, Stan found the sound as intoxicating as the liquor he had been shooting down that night. He lifted his heavy limbs over the edge of the loft and blindly sought out the tantalizing sound.

Crawling on all fours between the bales of dusty, scratchy hay Stan honed in on the melodic sounds of “Stairway to Heaven”. It didn't matter that there wasn't a plug for a boom box. The slow acoustic sound was coming from the rim of the sky light in the ceiling by the far right corner of the loft, and that was where Stan needed to be. He had to be there, his brain told him. The bright motes of dusty light that played up through the floorboards in front of Stan's wavering view told him in an increasing tempo and volume that all that glittered wasn't gold. It told him that his stairway to heaven lay just beyond the inky blackness that seeped in through the open sky light. It wasn't a choice. He had to reach that fresh air. He had to grasp at that freedom.

He was nearly there, at the source of Led Zeppelin's crooning. Looping through the bales on all fours Stan felt like he was swimming through a fleeting reality that could only be grounded somehow by the musician he had been following. He simply had to find the source of the sound. He wasn't sure he'd survive if he didn't.

Stray trails of hay drifted through the light streaming out of the skylight and into the purply blackness of the night. Little flecks of gold and blond swayed back and forth as Stan finally, at long last, thrust his head out into the open night sky. Taking a deep breath, Stan caught himself on the sill of the skylight. From up here the landscape stretched out in almost endless lengths of purple and blue, only cut here and there by the jagged rises of the Sierra Nevada. For a moment his mind tricked him into thinking this was his last moment and he grasped at it with desperation. For a split second further it slid into a moment in which his mind couldn't grasp the infinity laid out before it. Stan could only gape and stare. Just as suddenly the moment was lost when his right hand reached out and could only grasp at nothing but air. The infinite was too much to bear, and being unable to touch it his mind had snapped back to the wobbly present. He was Stanley Pines again, back on the roof of some strangers' barn, following the fading sound of “Stairway to Heaven” all the way into the starlight. He couldn't float up to the sky, but his mind told him that he could still be a part of something... special? He wasn't sure anymore. The moment was gone. Being drunk as a skunk could be magically inconsistent like that.

Pulling himself onto the tin rooftop of the barn, Stan was vaguely aware that the soundtrack to his adventure had switched over to another song. The Animals, going back to 1964, had begun to sing about a house where one could check out but never leave. Still sung in an inferior tin can sound, but nonetheless compelling, Stan tuned right into the song as he shimmied out onto the rooftop. The roof had a low pitch to it and still held some of the heat of the day. Perfect for stargazing. Much better than the gritty sand of Glass Shards Beach or the back seat of El Diablo, anyway. Tempted to think once again of his estranged brother, Stan looked for anything else to distract his sentimental brain. Some far off part of his brain told him that he really should be more interested in where the music was coming from. Grasping onto that thought he looked around trying to find the source of the sound.

Rick was lying on his back with his left leg swung over his right. His long hands were wrapped around a small cylindrical device about the size of a beer can that pumped the song out in metallic, jarring quality. A short antennae sprouted from a jumble of multi-colored wires and sat like a crown on the top of the cylinder, tiny blue lights blipping in and out of existence amongst the tangle. Stan stared in utter fascination at the music player.

“H-han-give me the whiskey and I'll let you take a closer look at it.” The taller man said as if reading his thoughts.

Stan handed the sloshing remains of the whiskey over as the other man gently placed the little machine in Stan's large palm. He turned it over, keeping a firm yet delicate grip on the device as he took in what little details he could make out in the dim light. The casing was almost hot to the touch and it vibrated lightly with each thrum of the beat. He couldn't see anyplace for a cord to come out, so it had to be battery operated. There didn't appear to be any speakers either, and yet the machine was somehow emitting sound. When he held it up to his ear the music seemed to be loudest along the deep groove that ran about an inch below the end of the cylinder that was overflowing with wires. Stan ran the pad of his thumb over the groove, feeling the vibrations of the music pulse through his hand. That was the extent of what Stan could deduce, however. Nothing else about the thing he was holding seemed remotely familiar to any other radio he'd ever seen before.

Stan, now semi-grounded on gently waving alcohol infused reality, scooted over until he was stretched out next to his companion on the sloped corrugated metal. He could practically feel the energy pouring off of the other man despite the tempering effects of the whiskey. It was nice. Familiar, yet different.

He held the machine out for Rick to take. “'S cool. You make this?”

Curling his fingers around the body of the music player, the other man placed the machine between them in a groove on the tin roof. Judging by the closed eyes and goofy grin Rick wore Stan guessed that the nicotine high had worn off. Of course drinking _more_ whiskey probably hadn't helped. He looked down at the bottle. There had been a fifth left when he had passed it over. Now there was only a measly little puddle of golden liquid sliding around the bottom of the glass. Enough for only a mouthful. Eh, might as well finish it off. Lifting the bottle to his lips Stan emptied the contents and let out a sigh as the liquid burned a path down his throat and into his stomach. Maybe just one more cigarette. Pulling out the Camels again Stan took stock of his inventory, noting that he only had three left. Wow, he'd really burned through this pack quickly. Between the stress of getting to Joshua Tree and the implications of his latest treasure hunting expedition he had been really on edge lately. Well, there was nothing for it. He was drunk on a barn roof stargazing with a crazy haired and quite possibly genius musician. Fuck it. He struck a light and began inhaling. The stars twinkled coyly above their heads.

“So I just have to ask,” Stan rolled his shoulder so he was tilted toward his companion. “How do you know these guys? Must be some story.”

“Tom Scholz.” was all the musician said as he took a breath and looked off into the night sky. The stars were out in force and the bow of the Milky Way bisected the skyline in splashes of deep purple, royal blue and subtle pink hues. He seemed to be trying to stare them down. His light blue unibrow was scrunched up and his mood had suddenly seemed to take on a sour note.

“Hm, not familiar with that name.” Stan thought. He chuckled with a light smile and closed his eyes, resting his head against the warm rooftop and taking another small hit from his cigarette. Looked like he was going to have to turn on the charm in order to tease out more information from this guy. But that was alright. He was already pretty hooked into this six foot two enigma, might as well see how deep he could drill before he hit bedrock.

“So, what, were they part of the first lineup?” he asked. And in a slightly conspiratorial tone he added, “Did they separate to pursue their own music?”

“Nope.” Sanchez reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of Stan's mouth. All Stan could muster was a slurry “Hey, asshole!” as he tried to reach over to retrieve his smoke. The taller man had slid over just out of reach though, and Stan wasn't motivated enough to move at that moment. He glared at the jerk who had stolen one of his last cigarettes, gritting his teeth as he watched the cherry dwindle closer to the filter before it was stubbed out, half finished, on the corrugated rooftop. Ass _hole!_ Wasting good tobacco like that!

“We met at MIT.”

Well, shit, that stopped him up short. Stan had to process that for a moment. Wasn't MIT supposed to be full of eggheads? Only second best to West Coast Tech? Stan had distinctly remembered Ford mentioning something about MIT one night when they had been hanging out under the pier. Something about it being a really good engineering school, but lacking in the theoretical physics department. Stan wasn't sure, although to be fair he couldn't remember much right now, but he knew that MIT had definitely been on Ford's top three list. Of that he was certain. And did he catch a “we” in that sentence? Had this guy gone to MIT? With Coconuts and Spice Kit? What, were they secretly geniuses too?

Stan turned onto his back and just looked at the stars. About an hour ago there had been a moment when Led Zeppelin had been playing and Stan would have sworn he could have reached out to touch those stars. Now they all seemed so far away. “What were you guys studying?” He wasn't really sure why he was asking. It just seemed like the right thing to say.

“Artificial intelligence.” Replied Sanchez in a monotone voice. He seemed bored with this conversation.

Might as well go for the kill. Either the other man wouldn't answer, would become angry, or would tell him what he wanted to know.

“Why not West Coast Tech? Wouldn't they have better equipment?”

No answer followed his question. He let the moment hang precariously for a few further seconds before he looked over. Rick was just staring at him. His eyes, glazed with both THC and drink, had this bizarre look as if he was brazenly fighting the lull of the drugs in his system in a vain effort to parse out a complex puzzle. His deep brown pupils flashed in and out of focus so quickly that it was nearly impossible to catch, but having seen the same battle rage in his brother's face Stan knew what it meant. He had taken the other man off guard. Something he said had snagged his attention and now he was trying to make sense of it.

“West Coast Tech,” he said, enunciating each syllable, “was good enough for what I needed it for.” Stan continued to stare at him, letting him proceed at his own pace. The two locked gazes for a split second. It seemed like it was going to be an intense battle of wills every time that they did. Stan once again held his ground, keeping his gaze level and his interest keen. For the second time that night Piano Man abandoned the high ground and looked away first. “But it wasn't everything that I needed.”

Weird.

The mood had drastically cooled with the discussion of MIT and West Coast Tech. Stan shifted uncomfortably, desperately trying to think of how he could bring the discussion back to the easy flow they had had before. The small sound of “Spirit in the Sky” continued to play in the background.

“I never liked school,” Stan started off . “I got better shit to do than sit in a classroom all day listening to some braying jack ass talk about stuff that has nothing to do with anything I'll ever need to know.”

Stan peeked over at his companion. Rick didn't say anything right away, but his softening features told Stan all that he needed to know. He continued.

“The only good a teacher ever was to me was as a target for pranks.” Stan snickered softly, thinking back to some of the more memorable stunts he had pulled. Lifting the master keys from the principle's office so that he could break into the high school one night and graffiti the entire main hallway, filling the drawers of every teacher's desk with shaving cream, jacking one of the school buses from the parking lot one night to go joyriding, and baking high quality pot brownies which he left out in the teacher's lounge with an inconspicuous “take one” sign next to it. Stan didn't realize he was saying all of this out loud until a bark of laughter brought him back to Earth.

“Y-you drugged the entire teaching staff!?” Rick looked impressed. His unibrow was practically up in his hairline and a dopey, sloppy grin was plastered on his face.

“Heh, yup.” Stan said with pride. “The best part about it was that it took a while for the weed to take effect, so we had teachers dropping like flies at random points throughout the day. They even had to cancel classes the next day because the staff was still too high to come in.” The memory was just too good, and Stan started laughing along with Rick. Gasping for air, he wiped away a tear and went on. “To top it all off I never got caught!”

“Fffuck yeah, man!” The other man reached over and cuffed him on the back. “But I-I can top it. I put a transdermal laxative in the heads of all of the showers in the men's locker room.”

Stan had no idea was “transdermal” meant, but he sure knew what a laxative was. This sounded like it was going to be good.

“When the swim team c-came in to-to shower before their meet they got covered in the stuff. Best part? It's odorless and colorless so they had no idea what they were marinating in!”

“Oh shit!”

“Oh shit indeed!” Their obnoxious laughter filled the cool night air, building and building until they could barely breathe. “That pool looked like a chocolate slurry with people screaming and flailing around trying to get out!”

“Oh, oh that is just so gross!” Stan said, half laughing and half gagging.

The laughter was infectious and soon both men were howling as they recounted escapade after escapade. Stan shared his story of how, in one of his brighter moments, he had managed to rewire the principle's car so that, when he sat down in the drivers seat, he had gotten a shock of electricity straight up the ass. Rick then told him about how he had blown up an entire wing of his high school. The stories got grander and taller the longer the two went on. Each one was determined to prove how much more of a shit head they were than the other. The thread of their previous camaraderie had been fully restored and the night's momentary distraction into awkwardness had been surpassed.

At some point in his storytelling Stan realized that he must have let slip what his real name was. All of a sudden the lankier man was punctuating nearly every other word with some variety of Stanley, Stan, Lee, S-Man, Super Lee, etc.

“Stan. Stanley.” He started up again. “I t-t-tell you wh-unh-at, my man Lee.” Standing up on unsure legs he towered over Stan who sat crosslegged looking up at him. His head completely eclipsed the moon behind him, giving his bluish-white spikey hair a strange haloed effect. He looked down at Stan with a dazed, slack expression and then flung his arms out, tilting his head back to look groggily around him. “You ever feel like just-just getting off this...” His wrists flicked back and forth as he tried to find the right words, “fucking shit stain planet? Making it big and getting out of here?” He started to tilt backwards, but caught himself before trying to straighten up again.

When he noticed the imminent danger that the other man was in, Stan had leapt into a crouch and grabbed the pant leg closest to him. Giving it a sharp tug he yelled up, “Jesus Rick, sit down before you fall off!”

“Well, Stan,” Rick continued as he heavily plopped back down right beside him. Stan felt like he was sitting uncomfortably close to him now, but before the he had a chance to scoot over out of his personal space he found himself with Rick mere inches from his face, Rick’s arm looped around his shoulder, puffing whiskey sodden breath into his face. The other man went on.

“I know how to do it.” He slurred. His unfocused eyes tried to lock with Stan's, but he was just too drunk. His forehead was nearly colliding with Stan's as he began speaking again in a overly serious manner, “T-t-to get away from it all and,” he pushed himself away from Stan and for a brief moment he stood with his hands fanned out in a wide arch over his head, “let go.”

“Uh,” Stan fumbled for words. “Oh-kay, ya lost me there buddy.”

 _Let go?_ Somewhere under the anesthetizing effects of the whiskey was a sense of dread that told him something was unright with that statement.

With his declaration the energy that seemed to sustain Rick throughout the evening drained out of him in one small sigh. And then there he was. Some drunk, blue haired weirdo, lean arms extended to greet something larger than himself. Finding nothing there the pianist’s whole body sagged and sat down with a metallic protest from the tin roof.

“Kn-kn-know how to do-o it.” He repeated. Leaning back he looked up into the sky, transfixed by the arc of stars above them. “That's what I'm go...nnng to do.” With a graceless flop Rick lay back on the rapidly cooling metal. Stan could tell that any second now he was going to be out for the night. He had that cloudy look of someone about to black out. He kept fighting it, though. With small jerky motions Rick managed to lift his left arm, graceful and willowy fingers spread to the sky, and say, “Le' go of this world 'n f-fly away,” before he whole body went slack and his eyelids fell shut.

Stan stayed up on the roof a moment more, trying and failing to process what the hell this guy had been talking about. He quickly came to the conclusion that he was too tired and drunk for that kind of heavy thinking. Besides, in the morning neither of them would likely remember what Rick had said in his last few moments of consciousness so what would be the point of agonizing over it. He had a cot calling to him back on the porch, and there was nothing he wanted to do more at that moment than to collapse on it.

In the fuzzy twilight time between Stan standing up on the roof and landing in his bed he somehow managed to drag Rick back into the hayloft, throw a horse blanket over him, descend the ladder without falling, stumble across the yard, and lift his leaden feet up the stairs of the back porch. Not bothering to take his shoes off, Stan threw back the covers and rolled onto the cot. Heavenly. It was heavenly not being cramped in the back seat of the car. Being able to stretch out completely. Stan took a second further to think about tomorrow's expedition to Quail Mountain.

Talking to those hikers had been the best idea he'd had in weeks. Gas, food, a place to crash all in one cheap package. Great music, free weed, fun conversation. And meeting Rick, the crazy bastard. His thoughts returned to him now, the way his spidery fingers flew deftly across the keys, the way he bit his lower lip and wrinkled up his chin like a peach pit when he was deeply transfixed by playing the instrument, sweat rolling down his temples. The friendly way he’d looped his arm over his shoulder, or the snarky curl at the corner of his lip when he smoked down the cigarette he’d sneaked right out of Stan’s hand. It had been so nice to sit side-by-side on that roof, stars ahead, the deep belly laughter making his abs burn. Maybe his luck was finally turning around. For the first time in months Stan fell into a deep dreamless sleep accompanied by a warm, red glow of hope.

 


	3. Tarmac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan learns a little bit more about the enigma that is Rick Sanchez.

Written by Badabingboogeythesecond 

Edited by Nanianela

The cleanliness of the air was the first thing that Stan noticed on his first attempt to rise. It wasn't musty with a slight undertone of leather and body odor, like the car. There was also the sensation of endlessness beyond his feet without a padded door to press up against. Waking up without kinks in his back was a welcome, glorious sensation. He could likewise appreciate the fact that he hadn't bothered taking off his jacket last night. The chill of the night had morphed into a pleasant early morning with a few wisps of yellow cloud skating across an otherwise feathery glowing peach and pink sky. Of course Stan, this early in his waking procedure, couldn't yet appreciate the perfection of the weather. He effortlessly fell under the surface of sleep again.

His body's second attempt to break from sleep was more successful. He surfaced to the now noticeable taste of stale cigarette smoke as he slipped out from under the most restful sleeps he had in weeks. Smacking his lips as he tried to clean the flavor of binge drinking off of his fuzzy teeth with his tongue, Stan's eyes opened. The light was always the worst part. Even as slits the murderously bright sun hit his poor orbs like an ax to the brain.

The taste of whiskey was likewise familiar. It swelled in the treasure hunter's mouth for a moment before he was able to get a grip on his gag reflex and relax back into the canvas bed. Lying on his side and trying to control his breathing, Stan could take a moment to assess his surroundings. The scenery was not something he could say that he had woken up to very often.

For one thing the horses from the barn last night were wheeling around the enclosed paddock, kicking up clouds of dust as they chased each other back and forth over the red, packed soil. The sky was spectacular in its cloudless, bright blue glory, and the sun shone down fiercely from the sky's zenith. It had to be past noon. At least that wasn't so foreign. He wouldn't exactly call himself an early riser on a good day. Afternoon heat was the consistent alarm clock in Stan's life. The quickly receding shadow over the porch was bringing that wake up call closer by the minute.

Stan felt he had perfected the entire process of standing up with a hangover, but this morning was a challenge. When he managed to confidently take a step forward he made his way carefully from the porch into the kitchen. In the daylight the interior looked almost modern. There was the sink where he had placed his dishes, his bug-out bag was by the door leading to the hallway, and the usual kitchen appliances were spread out over the yellow formica countertops. Oranges, browns, reds and a few pops of pastel color accentuated the eclectic nature of the wall decorations. There were tour posters, portraits of people he could only assume were relatives, a few frames containing only ticket stubs, and a wide range of postcards that covered the otherwise painful1950s decor. Purples against mint green walls, orange next to cream white trim, it was an explosion of color that Stan hadn't been expecting. Not an unwelcome shock, but one that he realized he should have been expecting. He had known full well that he had entered a lair of hippies. Still, it was weird how the chrome and wood varnished appliances all looked brand new, yet the rest of the kitchen was such a juxtaposition of eclectic design and old, antique-painted architecture.

He had to admit the framed tour posters were a cool touch. Some names he recognized from last night's conversations. Others he knew he should know, but his memory of everything after eleven was rather fuzzy. Overwhelmingly the advertisements leaned toward psychedelic rock - Iron Butterfly, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, and Jimi Hendrix, naturally. There were a lot of posters from Whiskey A Go Go, Fillmore Auditorium and Avalon Ballroom. A few of the venues Stan recognized as New York hot spots, but otherwise it was obvious that these guys were long time west coast residents.

One poster in particular stood out to him. On a blood red background, the twists of a giant snake composed of band names curled territorially around the upper body of stern looking topless woman. “Sin Dance” loudly stood out in bold pine green font behind the crown of the woman's head. The smirk was what got him though - that curl of the right tip of her closed mouth, ever so slightly indenting her cheek. It was this detail that held a lifetime's worth of experience and attitude.

He wanted that poster. Living in a car he couldn't hang it anywhere, but whether for sentimental reasons or a purely impulsive desire he wanted that poster. And all of his burgling instincts told him exactly how to get it. It was in a corner of the kitchen high up near the ceiling; not featured prominently, therefore clearly indicating that it wouldn't be missed. Or at least it wouldn't be missed until he was a few towns over. Stan snagged one of the kitchen table chairs, positioned it below the poster, climbed up and deftly lifted the slim, black frame off its hook. The poster slid easily out after he loosened the top and both sides. The empty frame was hidden behind the heavy credenza by the door to the porch. The poster would have to go in his bug-out bag. Rolling up the stolen good and securing it with a rubber band he took from a bundle of mail, Stan wrapped one of his shirts around the paper tube before shoving it deep into the bottom of the black canvas duffle bag.

A pleasant voice above him said, “Well hey there, young rocker.”

Stan's hand froze as he was zipping up the bag. With practiced ease a smile spread across his face as he looked up. “Morning.” He forced his hand to finish zipping the bag before standing up.

Well, it looked like he didn't have to be worried about getting up late. Dressed in a red, mid length bathrobe with a pair of blue scrubs for pants, Coconuts looked as if he himself had just risen. It seemed the both of them had taken their time recovering from yesterday's festivities.

“So, last night was awesome.” Stan said as he turned and strolled over to the fridge. “How’d you learn to play like that?” He yanked open the door of the fridge and looked around. He tried to remind himself that there was no way this guy would notice one missing tour advertisement. He just had to play it cool.

If Coconuts noticed anything amiss he was certainly hiding it well. The middle-aged, curly haired hippy reached out for the cupboard by the sink and grabbed a red ceramic soup mug. “I've always had an interest in sound.” He said, carefully lifting the room temperature percolator off of the range. A little coffee sloshed over the rim of the enormous cup as Coconuts filled it.

“Pass me the milk, would ya?”

Stan handed him the carton with faked nonchalance and Coconuts took it with an honest and pleasant, “Thank you”. He gestured to a foil wrapped plate at the bottom of the fridge next to a bunch of giant, bright red steak tomatoes. There was a small, tented piece of paper on it that said “Roger” in a loopy script.

“Julia made that for you this morning.” Coconuts continued to make his coffee as Stan took the food over to the microwave oven. It was an imported model, and the chrome shone brightly in the early afternoon light filtering through the window.

“You should be thankful it's still there. Rick wanted to eat it.”

Stan snorted. The last time he had seen Sanchez, he had been face down on a hay bale. The idea of him waking up hungover, but still hungry enough to attempt stealing Stan's breakfast was more than a little implausible. Although, from the short time he'd known Rick he wouldn't be at all surprised if he pulled off a one-eighty like that.

The microwave chimed and Stan picked up the steaming plate of eggs and hash. He carried it over to the center of the room where the pitted and stained kitchen table stood. He dug in with gusto as Coconuts joined him in the opposite seat.

“I'm amazed he'd be able to stomach anything after last night.” Stan said between mouthfuls of delicious food.

“He claims to have the hardest working liver on the planet.”

Stan thought of how sloppy Rick had gotten last night and smirked. “Heh, think I got 'im beat there.” He said as he jabbed a thumb at himself.

The other man at the table took a deep drink from his coffee, glancing with amusement at the cocky youngster. “I believe him.” He paused for another long sip. “I've known Rick since his short stint at Berklee College of Music, and from what I can tell he's one of those intellectuals who, when he cuts loose, goes _hard.”_ He looked at the table for a second before closing his eyes and shaking his head. “That...uh”, he wore a look of fond aggravation as he chuckling to himself, “that guy is a trip”.

“Oh yeah?”

Coconuts nodded vehemently, his eyes going wide and a tight smile stretching his stubbled chin. “Oh, yeah”.

Intrigued, Stan forgot about his breakfast for a second and leaned in. “So he's.. what, some kinda crazy genius musical prodigy?” He suspected he already knew the answer to that question, but confirmation wouldn't hurt.

“Some kind.” Coconuts paused to unfold the newspaper with a crisp snap before continuing. “Rick is beyond labels.”

Stan would have loved to know what that meant, but with that declaration his source seemed to have gone dry. When Stan had pushed for more information on Rick he was met with vague answers. This Coconuts guys was not one for words. When asked what Rick had been like at Berklee, Coconuts informed him that he had only known him for four months before Rick had been kicked out. When he asked Coconuts questions designed to get a feel for Rick's personality, Coconuts would say something to the effect of, “He's inexplicable”. Stan soon gave up. He could tell the guy was interested more in his newspaper than talking about Sanchez. Besides, Stan didn't want to get kicked out for being annoying until he had at least finished his breakfast.

The rest of the meal passed amicably enough. Coconuts was happy to engage “Roger” in sporadic conversation whenever he asked him anything about the farm or his music. But Coconuts himself asked few questions and gave short answers. The most engaged he became was when he was recounting how he had carried the halved shell of a coconut with him along the entirety of the Appalachian Trail. Apparently the whole hike he had talked up the idea of coconut husks being the perfect camping accessory. Amazingly he had been met with some success. Three times he and Julia, aka Spice Kit, had come across another hiker who was bragging about their “organic camping gear”, only to whip out two empty halves of a coconut. He and Stan both had a good laugh at the gullibility of some people.

“Well,” the other man began folding up his newspaper and stood up from the table. “I wish you and Rick the best of luck getting to Joshua Tree.”

“Oh?” Stan looked around and for the first time noticed that the tall blue haired man was distinctly absent. “Did he head out to the park already?”

Coconuts took a final slow sip from the last of his coffee before placing the cup in the sink. “He's waiting for you to give him a ride.” Stan stared at him. “Said something about you owing him a favor.”

“ _Me_ owing _him_ a favor?”

“Yup.” Coconuts said as he gave “Roger” a sympathetic look as if he knew Rick would pull this kind of shit but didn't question it anymore.

Stan was dumbstruck for a moment before recovering enough to argue. “Wait, wait, wait, is he even going in the same direction as me?”

“He needs a ride to Joshua Tree. Not sure exactly sure where his end destination is.”

Stan didn't make any sign of moving from his shocked position at the table. Coconuts continued, “Time’s a bit of a factor for him apparently, so you better get moving.”

“Why? What time is it?”

“2:23.”

Stan vehemently swore in his head, but outwardly he merely replied through grinning, gritted teeth, “I guess I really needed the sleep.” He forced out a light chuckle.

Shit! On top of suddenly being a cab service for drunk pianists he had wasted most of the day. And what was all this bullshit about him owing Sanchez a favor? Stan had dragged his skinny ass off the roof last night and even thrown a blanket on him so he wouldn’t freeze. What? Was he mad that Stan hadn't dragged him down the ladder, across the yard and tucked him into bed?

“Oh-kay, well…” Stan stood up and deposited his dishes into the sink, taking a moment to scrape the remainder of the food into the garbage disposal. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”

Shouldering his bug-out bag, Stan turned to face the older man. Ready for the road once more, the teenager offered his right hand to Coconuts. Half to maintain appearance, half in genuine gratitude, Stan put on a winning smile and shook the hippy's hand.

“You and your wife have been great. A place to eat, a place to sleep, and the music wasn't half bad either.” He winked.

“Alright, get out of here kid.” Coconuts smiled as he led his guest to the exit. Stan gave the chipping screen door a light shove and stepped onto the front porch. “Good weather and safe travels on the trail. Oh, and here's that canister of gas for your car.” He reached around doorframe and picked up a metal red gas can. Handing it over he said, “Just leave the can by the mailbox. Julia will grab it when she gets home.” He began to turn back into the house but stopped as if he had suddenly remembered something. Looking back at Stan the musician added a final farewell. “Best of luck dealing with Rick. Ask him about Berklee.” And with that he closed the door.

-*-*-

He had done pretty well for himself, Stan thought as he walked down the driveway. Once again his improvisation and roguish charm had gotten him a windfall of good fortune. He was well rested and facing the open tarmac with a full stomach, a five gallon can of gas for the car, and a cool poster stashed in his bag. As far as scams went he had made out like a bandit - he'd loved it, looted it, and left it.

There was still the minor inconvenience of having to give someone a ride into the park. He'd also slept so late that there were only four hours of daylight left, but he still felt good about this whole adventure. And traveling a short ways with that Sanchez guy didn't seem like such a terrible prospect honestly. He was fun to talk to when they were plastered, so maybe that almost-warning that Coconuts had left him with was just a joke. If they were going in the same direction it could be fun to have a passenger to talk to. Repositioning the strap of the bag as it dug into his shoulder, Stan made up his mind that it might not be so bad.

-*-*-

“Wow Sanchez, you look like hell.” Stan greeted the pianist as he walked up to the passenger side door.

All he got in reply was a mumbled, “Hnnnnh”, from the tall man reclining in the front seat.

Rick was sporting a blue-grey five o'clock shadow along his jaw and down his neck. Looked like the wild hair color was natural if he could sprout facial hair in the same shade. His eyes, what little peeked out from behind the dark aviator sunglasses he wore, were the classic angry red of the hungover. Sticking up in an even more chaotic fashion, his light blue hair stood at odd angles from his scalp. It was as if the man had just stepped out of a wind tunnel. The front of his blue button up shirt was open to reveal a white undershirt drenched in sweat. The back of his clothing was likewise damp causing it to stick to the leather of the seat. It peeled away with a soft sound as Rick righted the seat and leaned forward. His forehead was almost touching the dash before he finally stopped and groped out blindly for something around his feet. He produced a hot, half full water bottle and proceeded to chug the contents.

Stan left him to it as he walked to the back of the car, but he stopped up short when he noticed the state of the trunk's paint. Scratched and dented, the metal at the lip of the hood was badly dinged where someone had taken a crowbar and forced the trunk to open. Panic gripped Stan's chest as he dropped his bug out bag on the ground and rushed forward. Everything he owned had been secured in that trunk! If he had lost his lantern and shovel he was fucked! When he gripped the hood and tried to lift it, it didn't budge. From that he could take that at least the lock wasn't broken. Maybe the thieves hadn't been able to get it open after all. Taking a deep, calming breath Stan produced his keys and opened the trunk.

The compartment wasn't empty, but what was in it certainly wasn't Stan’s stuff. Boxes and duffle bags bulged out of the deep well of the trunk. Loops of colorful wire secured with zip ties were crammed in the corners beneath the hinge of the hood. Metal steel piping was stuck here and there, wherever it could be fit. Not a single item of Stan's remained. Slamming the trunk closed Stan first looked around the other side of the car. Nothing. When his glance caught the back window he saw the outline of his shovel through the dusty glass. Looking closer Stan found that his possessions had all been carelessly shoved into the back passenger seats. Incensed at the intrusion into his privacy, the treasure hunter stalked over to Rick's window.

“Hey! What gives, Sanchez! You took everything out of the trunk and piled it into the back seat?”

Rick didn't move. He had fallen back asleep. Enraged, Stan slammed his fist down repeatedly on the roof of the car. “Hey, fucker! Wake up!”

“Uuu-nnn” Rick slowly lifted a hand to gingerly touch his sweaty forehead. The dark sunglasses slipped down his sharp nose as he leaned ever so slightly forward in the car seat. “Shuuu-uhn-up.”

“The trunk.” Stan barked as he leaned down to speak directly to Rick through the open passenger side window. “You emptied it into the back seat. Why?”

“To put my stuff in it. Durh.” Rick growled out as he cradled his forehead. Stan narrowed his eyes. He may have inherited his mother's gift for charm, but with that he had also been branded with his father's temper. He had been out in the sun for only 15 minutes, yet he was already starting to sweat through his t-shirt under the punishing August sun. Beads of perspiration were gathering at the base of his too long bangs and sliding down his face to drip off of his sunburnt, round nose. It was the hottest part of the day and Stan was not in the mood to deal with some bitchy musical prima donna. He had places to go to and treasure to unearth. Immediately after that he had a father to gloat over and a brother to mend bridges with. In that order.

“Oh, is going through my stuff part of the 'favor' that I allegedly owe you?” Stan said as he angrily thrust his thumb over his shoulder toward the back of the car.

Rick let out a loud belch reeking of alcohol. Scotch? Maybe whiskey. “Yeah well, some asshole left me in a puddle of puke on a scratchy hay bale covered by an even scratchier horse blanket. I might have been willing to overlook any debts owed if I had woken up more comfortably.”

Stan scoffed. Unbelievable. _That_ was why he owed this guy a favor?

“Hey buddy, you're lucky I didn't leave you out to freeze on the roof.”

Rick leaned forward and sneered, “No, _you're_ lucky I don't charge you the full value of that speaker.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the highly experimental, highly expensive portable speaker and radio beacon you kicked off the roof last night.” A hollow cold washed over Stan. His thoughts were racing as he tried to remember the previous evening. Had he knocked the speaker off when he'd dragged Sanchez into the loft? He vaguely recalled lifting the pianist under the arms and dragging him back to the sky light. He'd nearly fallen off the roof getting the both of them inside. Why had he nearly fallen? He'd stepped on something. Something that had rolled out from under his foot and upset his balance. Oh shit.

“Technology like that isn't cheap, Pines. Be glad I'm only asking for a lift.” Rick’s eyes raked up Stan’s form, causing the teen to flush a deep red. “I doubt you could pay me back in any other way.” Rick sneered.

Seeing the realization dawn on the other man's face, Rick made himself comfortable. His lanky torso gently fell back against the seat and he flopped his head against the headrest. “*Urgh* Now get in the car and let's just-just drive. Let's go! ¡Vámanos!” His left hand jerked up to massage his temple with a grumbled, “No yelling. Ow.”

Stan merely harrumphed and stomped over to the driver side door, yanking it open and carelessly stuffed his bug-out bag and jacket into the crowded back seat. He angrily flopping into his seat and jammed the keys into the ignition. Despite his annoyance with his passenger it did feel good to be back on track to Joshua Tree. Pulling the car out into the right-hand lane the two strangers sped down the road.

-*-*-

Rick was the first to break the solid ten minutes of silence that had stretched out like sun baked roadkill between them. “You gonna be a big titty-baby about me touching your stuff the whole trip?”

“You gonna explain to me why you didn't just put _your_ stuff in the back seat?” Stan bit back.

“Oh for Christ's sake, some of my stuff _is_ in the back seat. It wouldn't all fit in the trunk.”

Stan glanced in the rear view mirror as he adjusted its angle. He noted the navy blue duffel bag with a hint of disdain, the words “West Coast Technological Institute” across the side, and a large cardboard box with numerous indecipherable words scribbled out in a cramped handwriting that clearly wasn't his.

“Are we done now?” Rick said contemptuously. “We good? Got the back seat-slash-trunk situation all lo-ocked down?” Sanchez drummed the fingers of his right hand on the door as he glared at Stan.

Apparently he was not. “Were you living with those two for a month? How much stuff can you possibly be traveling with?”

Sanchez swore in exasperation. The trip couldn't be over fast enough for either party. “A week. And a lot.” He looked out the open window as the scenery shot past. The land had begun to take on a lowland appearance as scrubby brush became more common. They were still a good way from the entrance to the park, but the landscape was already beginning to reflect the outskirts of Yucca Valley.

When Rick didn't elaborate Stan barged on. He was still furious about the casual invasion of his privacy, his life essentially, and was far from letting anything go. “So, the trunk has your mattress and the cardboard box in the back has your dishes? I'm giving you a ride, not helping you move!”

“Listen man, you-you-you you owe me.” Rick snarled. The lanky musician vehemently jabbed a callused, pointy index finger at Stan before looking forward again. Casually lifting his right knee so that he could swing his leg up and out the window, Rick reclined his seat a few notches and laced his fingers over his abdomen. He glared at Stan as if daring him to say anything and ordered, “Now put your damn foot down and get me to Joshua Tree!”

Stan was stunned into silence for a few moments before a renewed anger surged through him. Like hell was he going to play chauffeur to some smart-aleck prick, genius or not. There was going to be some respect established right here and now. “You put _your_ foot down.” Stan said, pulling his fist back before delivering a satisfying jab to Sanchez's left leg.

“Ow! Fucking christ, are you wearing brass knuckles?” Rick pulled his foot back into the car as he petulantly gripped his smarting thigh. “I get it, you don't want anyone messing with what's yours. I-it's probably ended pretty badly for you to just trust people given your obviously transient life style. Is that right, “Langley”. Rick obnoxiously crooned. Stan's scowl deepened. “I mean, really? Why not just tell people you're Stanley Pines? They don't know you from the next asshole.”

Before Stan could defensively retort his passenger continued. “Unless,” here Rick paused, wagging a long finger in Stan's direction, “you're wanted somewhere.” His grin continued to widen as he lay out Stan's backstory. “You have a warrant or bounty on your head.” Rick said this as it were the coolest thing he had ever heard. “And you travel the U.S. fleeing from the past that has sworn to catch up to you.”

Sanchez reached into his back pocket and produced a fresh packet of Nantucket Menthol Blues. Lighting one without offering a stick to Stan, he breathed in a fifth of the cigarette before pushing the smoke from his lungs in one hurried gust. Rick continued to puff away as he reached down and rolled up his window, just leaving a scant inch of open space through which he blew his smoke. “That would be so sweet.” He looked at Stan as if he were envious of having such a glorious history.

It was a frighteningly accurate summation of why he kept up his continuous line of aliases. Get thrown in county jail a few times for theft, and you start giving an alias automatically. But there was no way Rick could possibly know the extent of Stan's dubious past, so he gracefully played it all off with his characteristic salesman laugh. He wasn't about to let anyone put a noose around his neck.

“Yeah, that's it. Ya nailed it, my man.” Stan's hand shot out and nabbed the cigarette from between Sanchez's lips. He brought the whiskey scented paper tube to his mouth and inhaled for a split second before tossing the barely smoked stick out his window. “Good thing you're not a bounty hunter or I'd have to throw you out of the car.” Stan leaned back and sneered at his passenger. The threat was left hanging in the air.

Sanchez hadn't moved at all when Stan had nabbed his cigarette. He hadn't even reacted at all at the perceived threat. He just kept looking forward wearing the same detached smile he had as he had “uncovered” Stan's history. Unnerved at the silence, Stan glanced over again at his passenger. Nothing. Just him looking forward without seeming to see anything. Not wanting to kill them both in a fiery crash Stan looked back at the road, and in the short moment between his glances he whipped his eyes back to Sanchez only to find the muzzle of a gun pointed between his eyes.

For half a second Stan's eyebrows shot into his hairline, before one of them fell to rest in a sardonic stare. It was a shiny plastic chrome gun with ridiculous green fins and two red hollow disks positioned near the end of the thin double-barreled muzzle. Red and white sparks flew within the disks as Rick rapidly pulled the trigger. As Stan took in the situation he had to look away as he tried vainly to suppress a smile.

Rick just kept on pulling the trigger, grinning smugly in return. “Yeah, 'Langley', I am _that_ good.” The gun kept emitting a tiny revving, whirring noise like a joy buzzer with each pull of the trigger. Rick finally pulled the toy back from Stan's amused face. He held it up to his own face and placed the muzzle under his chin. He threw back his head in a braying laugh as he turned the gun on himself, pulling the trigger again and again. Stan just shook his head, resigning himself to the fact that his face was trying to split itself in half with a toothy grin of disbelief at the spaz sitting next to him.

“Heheh, gonna throw me out'a a moving car?” Applying his nimble skill to the acquisition of smokes, Rick gracefully fished out his Nantuckets again and placed two sticks in his mouth, lighting both with a dramatic flick of his zippo. He pulled out the second stick and offered it to the driver who accepted it with a chuckle.

“I've never had my back against the wall like that.” Rick sucked on the end of his smoke as he absently ran a hand through his hair and then down his stubbly chin. “Besides,” the pianist drummed his long fingers against the red leather of the armrest between them, “if you did manage to throw me out of the car before I shot you, I'd definitely deserve it”. Rick chuckled silently and continued to inhale his poison.

Rick leaned his elbow on the inner rim of the window and looked over at the young man driving the car. “Something I can't figure out about you,” he said with a sly smirk, “is why you care so much about a car that you clearly stole.”

The younger man's head whipped over to look at Rick. He couldn't help himself. Instantaneously he was awash with guilt, fear, and offense at the assumption that he couldn't possibly own something as nice as the El Diablo.

“This car.” Rick tapped his finger several times against the lip of the window as if it was necessary to emphasis what other car he could possibly be referring to. “What's up with that? You get pissed off at the state of the trunk even though I didn't break the lock.” he counted off on his left hand, the palm turned up toward the roof. “You throw a fit when I move your shit into the back seat.” Another finger. “You don't want my nasty shoes on the paint job or near the rear view mirror.” Three fingers hovered on the periphery of Stan's vision as he stoically looked at the road ahead. “Scientific theory indicates that this reaction is more than a coincidence.”

Inwardly Stan seethed. He may be far from the sharpest one in the room on any given occasion, but he knew a lead when he saw one. This was a language Stan had become uncomfortably familiar with in the months since he had left home. The goading, the condescension, attempting to hang a noose around his neck, this was a guy who wanted something over him. Power over him.

“Sorry chump, but I'm not biting that easily,” Stan whispered darkly.

“What?”

“I said that I didn't steal it. It's my old man's car.” Stan harshly bit out in halfway genuine offense. He valiantly tried to “casually” release his chocking grip on the wheel and drape his left, already-sun-roasted arm out the window.

Rick turned back to look out the window. He rested his elbow on the door, cradling his chin in the palm of his hand. For a long moment neither of them spoke, each tense by their efforts to seem casual. It was stifling and such a departure from yesterday's easy rapport between them that Stan almost wondered if he'd dreamed it all.

“Stealing from your folks, or carjacking off the street… what difference is there?” Sanchez raised one corner of his bushy white unibrow, trying to prod and tease again to get a reaction, one of those flares of anger Rick seemed to love instigating.

Stan didn't exactly know what to say to that one, and instead of letting that spark of anger grow any larger, he began fiddling with the dials of the radio in hopes of finding the rock station he had listened to yesterday. He needed music to fill the silence and calm himself down, and if he had learned anything last night about the man sitting next to him, it was that he wouldn't say no to the distraction either. Rick had his nose pointed out the window again, a neutral expression on his face as he shoved the sunglasses back up to the bridge of his sweaty nose.

It wasn't the same station and there was a constant crackle of static, but when he flipped to 103.5 FM and was welcomed with the opening guitar chords of Deep Purple's “No No No”, Stan let his hand fall back into his lap, satisfied.

“ _Really hate the running,_

_Really hate the game,_

_Looking at them all I want to be unborn again_

_Their suit is getting tighter_

_although they're getting thin_

_The flies are crawling on their face and try'na get in”_

When Stan noticed motion out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his passenger. Rick hadn't moved from his position against the door, his chin still remained propped up by the palm of his hand, but his aviators were now sitting perched on top of his wild head of hair. Stan could just make out the light bob of his head as he silently mouthed the lyrics to the song. The wrist of Rick’s left hand, meanwhile, was flicking up and down mimicking the motion of bringing a stick down on an invisible snare drum.

Rick’s red-tinted eyes still looked distant as he resolutely stared at the passing sandy landscape. Stan had to let a small half smile curl at the corner of his mouth. He felt a little freer to enjoy the music too, and started to hum along to the song. A few moments passed before Rick pulled away from the door in order to use both hands to mimic the drum parts, his motions becoming more loose as the song progressed.

“ _People say that we're to blame I sayNo no no it's just the gaameee_

_Must we let them fool us_

_No No No_

_Have we got our freedom_

_No No Nooo”_

Working on impulse, Stan reached over and ratcheted the volume up as high as it would go. Even though both of them would be sensitive to noise in their hungover states, it was well worth it. In a surge of sound, Deep Purple's music reared up and rode over the boom of the wind washing through the open windows.

“ _Is it getting better_

_No No No_

_Do we love each other_

_No No Nooo-oh_

_Must we wait forever_

_No No Nooooo”_

The two of them, one now barking the lyrics out in a gruff, slightly off-key voice as the other kept up the drum beat on an absent drum set, flew down the highway wrapped up in pure escapism.

The military tattoo of the beat in combination with the anger of the lyrics stoked a fiery determination in Stan as he drove. He would show everyone who had doubted him. He would rub it in their faces. It was fitting, he thought, that he should hear this song on his way to the treasure that would finally give back the life he wanted. He took a quick look at Rick, wondering what he was thinking as he beat the shit out a set of air drums, all without making a peep. Although his brow was drawn and his face was a tense and angry mask, Rick forcefully, but silently, shouted out the words of the song.

The song ended abruptly. They both laughed and whooped over the commentary of the DJ, Stan reached out to lower the volume, grinning wide. Rick swept the pieces of hair that had stuck to his sweaty skin up and off of his forehead, a grin on his own face. Rick passed his tongue over his dry lips and let out a soft chuckle, before relaxing for real this time and flopping back against the seat, hooking his long arm comfortably across the back of the bench seat with his hand draped a few inches away from Stan’s shoulder.

Rick turned his neck to look out the window, replacing the shades back on his nose. “You might be a runaway thief, but you got good taste, I’ll give you that.” He told the window, like he wasn't able to face Stan when he dished out a compliment.

There it was, again. The easiness of it all, their fraternity, he hadn’t dreamed it. This guy. He seemed to bring out the ridiculousness of Stan's life, his situation, and the world in general. Yeah, Rick Sanchez could chap his pelt with little to no difficulty, but Stan had to appreciate the guy's admiration for the barely lawful. He looked over as he laughed silently along with Rick. He wasn't sure if the musician was speaking truthfully, or even if he could put the tiniest bit of trust into anything the guy said. But whether or not he was in the same boat as Stan with regard to the law, Stan had to admit he liked this guy's style. Frantically living and still easy-breezy, he had that same flare just like him, Stan, the Pines family black sheep.

The thoughts of the two lost young men were swallowed up in the wake of El Diablo as it sped past a blue and white municipal sign welcoming them to the town of Joshua Tree, CA.


	4. Joshua Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now things are getting interesting.

Written by BadabingBoogeyTheSecond 

Edited by Nanianela 

The next fifteen minutes passed by quickly as the two travelers jumped from station to station in an effort to keep up the momentum of their trip's soundtrack. The chassis of the car vibrated to the base chords of the music blaring out of the surprisingly decent speakers of El Diablo. Houses were becoming proportionately more abundant as the volume climbed in the car. Driving past the rows of squat buildings with dingy lawns full of scrub brush, the treasure hunter couldn't help but comment, “Jesus, and I thought _I_ grew up in a crappy town.”

 

The warm tangerine glow of the evening threw a fierce glare on the reflective surface of the car's chrome accents. The irritating light shot right into Stan's retinas, making him wonder why he hadn't yet picked up a pair of sunglasses. He flipped down the visor for some relief and took a moment to bring the volume of the radio down a bit.

 

The heat of the day still lingered as the sun tucked itself in behind the hills. Rick had completely unbuttoned the front of his shirt by this point, revealing an off-white wife beater marred by a long thin sweat stain down his chest. Stan's left arm was now a raw red, but mercifully the cooling stroke of the wind kept the tingling pain to a dull throb. “You ever been to Jersey?” He asked, breaking the companionable silence.

 

“Huh?” Rick's bespectacled head tilted toward the driver. “Uh, nooo. Nope. Just went straight for New York.”

 

“Can't blame you.” Stan said as he turned the car into a rusted Texaco gas station. Parking the car at the self-service pump, Stan started fishing around for some cash. He had about twenty-five dollars to his name, and he was sure that most of it was in the form of coinage that had fallen on the floor of the car. He was counting out a collective two dollars in quarters, nickels and dimes when his passenger's voice piped up, “The fuck are we doing here?”

 

Rick had tipped his sunglasses down to read the large white painted gas pump they had parked next to. Thirty-nine cents a gallon. Pure robbery, but with the added weight of Rick's crap piled in the car, poor Diablo's already gluttonous engine had already chugged through the gas Coconuts had given him. He didn't have a choice. They had to make a stop before heading into the park. Shouldn't that be obvious? “Is this a trick question? We're out of gas. I'm at a gas station. You need me to draw this out for you?”

 

The look Rick gave him was similar to how his mother had looked at him when he was being particularly thick headed. “You're going to _pay_ for gas? You're actually going to waste money on gas when there's plenty around here you could swipe? Lame.”

 

“I'm not holding up a gas station in broad daylight. Are you insane?” Stan loudly protested.

 

“You might want to check your volume there, Pines.” Rick said with a sidelong glance over the shoulder of the other man. Following his gaze Stan noticed the tan Sedan parked by the bathrooms not fifty feet away. The car was half hidden in the deep, evening shadow of the building, but the tell-tale black outline of the lights on the roof of the cab gave away the nature of the vehicle.

 

A deep cold washed over him as he noticed that the front passenger and driver side windows were both open. Stan was putting the car in drive before he knew what he was doing, whipping the car back onto the highway seconds later and accelerating with a cloud of dust.

 

“Subtle.” Sanchez deadpanned. “If they didn't think we looked shady before, I'm sure that rookie move really put their minds at ease.”

 

“Shut up, Sanchez. I thought I recognized the plate.” Stan would never admit that he'd just been spooked by the car. Law enforcement always made him jumpy.

 

“Anyway,” Rick continued as he pulled his sunglasses off of his thin nose and put them into his right breast pocket, “I wasn't implying that you should knock over the station. Just siphon gas out of that blue Ford that was parked on the other side of the outbuilding. You know, wh-where we would have been out of sight of the police and could conduct our criminal activities in peace.”

 

Oh. “Right.” Siphon the gas? How do you do that, punch a hole in the underside of the of the gas tank?

 

“I mean, you could have just pulled into the station and sidled right up to it.”

 

“Got it.” Stan said with a roll of his eyes, wishing that Rick would just drop it.

 

“But no,” the white-haired man sighed in exasperation, “you turn out to be too much of a boy scout. Paying for fuel. Tsch. What kind of a bad-ass automatically goes to _pay_ for gas anyway?”

 

That stung a bit. Rick knew Stan was the kind of guy that had the balls to steal a school bus, after all. He was no puss, and how dare Sanchez imply as such. But all it had taken was one little Podunk sheriff’s car and Stan had hightailed it.

 

The center of Joshua Tree was little better than its outskirts. Dusty, tired, and in desperate need of an infusion of money into the upkeep of the city’s infrastructure. The two passengers in the long, red Cadillac could feel every pit in the road despite the treasure hunter’s best efforts to avoid the worst of the potholes.

 

Stan took yet another glance at the sad fuel gauge with the needle hovering right on the E line before he looked over at Rick, who was taking in the scenery with what appeared to be mounting agitation. His left knee was jiggling rapidly under his hand, and his eyes quickly darted around as he took in the street signs and geography of the land. The young man could practically hear Rick’s teeth gritting together as, with every bump, he leaned into the back seat to check on the large box behind the driver’s seat.

 

Stan swung the car lazily onto the thankfully less pitted Park Boulevard, cruised down National Park Drive and into the Joshua Tree National Monument visitor center.

 

Unlike the rest of the town, the visitor center was relatively lively and well kept up. It consisted of a sprawling, white, one story complex with two main structures separated by an open courtyard. Ringed around the courtyard were wooden posts holding up quarterboards directing tourists to various features. The parking lot was surprisingly half full with tourists' vehicles, their owners having wandered off to take advantage of the less brutal fall temperature. Thankful for the abundance of choices, Stan quickly landed his sights on a lone, dinged up gray Buick on the far side of the lot. Situated in the farthest back corner of the pavement, the rest of the patrons had given it a generous berth of empty spaces. As Stan pulled up to the gas tank side of the sad vehicle he also momentarily noted that it was one of the few cars in the lot with California plates.

 

“Alright, smart guy.” Stan said as he threw the car into park and relaxed back into his seat. “Time to put your great ideas into practice. Show me how a real bad-ass gets fuel.”

 

Rick smirked. “Oh no. Far be it for me to show you the tricks of your trade.”

 

“Well,” Stan shrugged with mock humility, “I'd hate for someone so talented to miss out on an opportunity to demonstrate his skill.” Stan said sarcastically as he flashed one of his winning smiles.

 

Rick paused at that. He tapped a long finger against his bottom lip as a sly grin spread across his pointy face. “You want to see my skill, hmm?”

 

Stan had to roll his eyes at that. God, the ego on this guy. He made it sound like Stan was begging him to reveal some kind of top level trade secret that Stan couldn't possibly wrap his mind around. How hard could siphoning gas from a car possibly be?

 

“Knock yourself out.” Stan replied with an accompanying pleasant sweep of his hand.

 

Taking the invitation with a quick sarcastic salute, Rick opened the passenger side door and smoothly slid out of the red leather seat. Stan just watched with a blasé look that belay his attentiveness. As annoying as Sanchez was, Stan's desire to learn a new trick that could allegedly save him a lot of money was pretty intense. He began cataloging the process by noting that, despite what he'd originally thought, siphoning first required a hose. Something that, for whatever reason, Rick apparently had in the box in the back seat.

 

Stan stood up and came around the front of the car so he could watch Rick work. The tall, lanky musician was crouched between the two cars with El Diablo blocking him from any view of the visitors center front entrance. There was no one parked to their left, and to the right stood a solid wooden fence marking the end of the pavement and the beginning of the sand. Even from the relatively obscured position, they both knew that this would have to be quick.  

 

The shadows were leaning heavily on the ground, almost camouflaged entirely in the early dark of the night. It had to be at least 5:30, and the visitor center would be closing soon. Day visitors, sunburnt and dehydrated, would be walking back to their cars to travel to their hotels or campsites for the night. For the thieves in the visitor center parking lot that meant that whatever Sanchez was going to do would have to be done fast.

 

After a quick glance around, Stan returned his attention to Rick. The man looked like he was made of nothing but tendons and bone, but when sober he moved with what Stan could only think of as grace as he knelt near the Buick's gas tank and removed the cap. He likewise twisted off the gas cap from the Cadillac with deft hands. Rick then slid the black length of hose down into the gas tank of the Buick before grabbing the other end. It didn't look like Stan's guess about how siphoning worked had been right whatsoever, because he definitely hadn't been expecting the hose to actually enter the other man's mouth, or for him to start intensely sucking! Rick wrapped his lips around the end of the hose and hollowed out his cheeks. Apparently there was quite a bit of enthusiastic sucking on the hose required to pull the gas out of the tank.

 

Rick’s eyes had fallen closed in intent concentration until they suddenly flew open when the gas gushed out of the hose in spurts. Alright, what the hell!

 

As Rick pulled his head away, coughing and wiping the back of his hand against his gasoline and spit shiny chin, Stan looked around to... make sure no one had spotted them. He could hear the light tapping of the metal end of the hose bumping its way into El Diablo's gas tank. Yup, looked like they were still in the clear.   

 

“So, d-did you learn anything?” The rough, grinning voice of the other man asked.

 

Forced to acknowledge the situation, Stan looked down. He stood transfixed at the man crouched in the deep blue shadows. What little light was left glistened tantalizingly off of his lips and the corners of his mouth. A bead of sweat gathered at his hairline ran down his jaw before dripping onto the wrinkled and stained collar of his blue button-up shirt. The intense light in his eyes was back, and he gripped Stan with a calm yet tempting look. They both hung entirely on Stan's next words.

 

“Uh, yes. Yep, I learned a- uh- really learned a lot just now.” Stan awkwardly stammered, snapping his head back up to look around. Just to make sure no one was paying them any attention, of course.

 

The lot was starting to get busier, but it couldn't be long before the Buick was empty and El Diablo was ready to roll. Without looking down at the man kneeling in the shadow of El Diablo, Stan pushed himself off the car's red chassis and stiffly walked back to the driver's seat. He didn't say a word as he got back in the car.

 

Rick walked around the front of the car, winding the hose us as he went. The bastard was wearing the most conceited look that Stan had ever seen, and he itched to do... something. Maybe starting with punching his teeth in. His masculinity was already smarting from Sanchez’s criticism of his criminal self-preservation. The hose sucking had only thrown him further off his game and had inflamed a weird feeling in his gut. But at that moment, when Sanchez came into his line of sight and briefly caught his eye, that motherfucker had the nerve to grin and _wink_ at him.

 

That exact moment tore it, the thin restraint Stan had been managing to hang onto fell away.

 

Fuck this guy.

 

Fuck his musical talent and insistence on Stan owing him a ride. No one humiliated him like that and got away with it.

 

Sanchez had just reached the left back passenger door when Stan dug his finger hard into the switch, locking El Diablo down.

 

“What- wh-what the hell, Pines?” Rick said as he unsuccessfully tried the handle only to have it flip up and down uselessly.

 

“Sorry pal, looks like you'll be walking the rest of the way.” Stan said through his open window, curling his hand around the top of the steering wheel.

 

“Oh, come on! Because of the thing, that- whatever, thing with the hose?” Rick loudly bit out. He continued to rapidly and obnoxiously pull at the handle, flipping it up and down noisily, like if he tried it enough times maybe it would actually open again. _“Stan!”_

 

“You might want to check your volume there, Sanchez.” Stan said cheekily, pointing out the couple who had slowed down their walk in curiosity.

 

“The fuck are you looking at!” Rick snarled at them, his tone and disheveled look effectively getting the message across that you didn't want to mess with this type of crazy. The two looked away and quickened their pace as Rick turned back to the stunned driver.

 

“Come on, man, don't be a dick about this. I-I have to get to Hidden Valley Trail _tonight_. I need this ride. You've seen how much shit I gotta lug around, don’t-!” Rick begged.

 

“Tough break.” Stan turned the key in the ignition. The purr of the engine filled the early evening darkness of the now mostly empty parking lot. “Next time? Pack lighter.”

 

“No no no, wait!” Rick gripped the edge of Stan's half open window, his rising desperation showing by the clawed nature of his fingers and the way the tendons strained up against the skin on the back of his hand. “I can- I’ll- I’ll pay you.”

 

That snagged his interest. Stan kept his hand on the stick shift but left the car in park. “How much you got?”

 

“I got pills. Quaaludes. A shit ton of ‘em.”

 

Stan's face took on a disgusted look before replying, “I need cash, Sanchez, not Tylenol dipped in candy.”

 

Sanchez just looked at him, trying to judge whether or not Stan was joking. “Christ, what are you, fucking eight years old? How can you not know what Quaalude is?”

 

“I'm nineteen! And I don't go in for designer drugs, asshole!” Mostly because Stan had no idea what they did, where to find them, or how much they went for.

 

“Nineteen!?” Sanchez's brows rocketed up high on his forehead. “What the fuck! I just- I thought the acne was because you had bad skin!”

 

If he pulled the car forward now, he could probably crush Sanchez's foot.

 

 _In fact,_ Stan thought to himself, _why not do just that?_

 

And that was when he heard the telltale click of a hammer being pulled back and the chilling, cold press of a muzzle against his temple. Stan froze up instantly, hands clamped around the steering wheel.

 

“I hate to do this, Pines. You seem like a cool guy in general, but nothing is keeping me from my rendezvous tonight. Nothing, got that? You're taking me to Hidden Valley Trail.” Rick said calmly, almost in a bored tone, as he held the Heckler & Koch HK P9 to Stan's head. “Unlock the doors. Now.”

 

Stan slowly did as instructed before returning his hands to the wheel where Rick could see them. His mind was racing, trying to think up a plan. Improvisation was his forte. It was how he had survived up until now, and he could only hope that some quick thinking would get him out of this jam too.  

 

“I'm going around to the passenger door. Try something stupid and I'll blow your brains out. And I think you know that I'll do it, too.”

 

Sticking close to the car, Sanchez walked around the front to the passenger side door. The hand not holding the gun lightly trailed along the hood as he went. All the while his right hand kept the gun steadily centered on the driver.

 

He climbed in with the gun still trained on Stan, using the dashboard as a screen from prying eyes. Anyone seeing them now wouldn’t see the short nosed gun, but it would stay in Stan’s plain sight the whole time.

 

“Now drive.”

 


	5. 2:34 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some gunfire with a dash of mad science to kick off the next stage of the adventure.

**The Best Bad Influence**

Chapter Five: 2:34 AM

Written by BadabingBoogeyTheSecond

Edited by Nanianela 

No one questioned the weathered red Cadillac as it ambled out of the parking lot and down the cracked pavement of Park Boulevard. Besides, the sky and its stars, as brilliant as they were at that time of night, were more interesting than anything covered in dust and bumping down the hard packed dirt road. Sparkling and bright as they were, their light, in combination with the light of the sliver of moon, was all that was keeping the scenery from being wrapped snuggly in deep purples and blues.

Ever conscious of the gun pointed up at his chest, Stanley didn't attempt to catch the eye of any of the hikers they passed or to signal to the deep green park patrol jeep that rumbled past them. The dust that the ranger's car kicked up coated the chassis of the El Diablo giving it a fine, textured glaze. The copious amounts of fine earth that billowed into the open windows of Stan's car clogged his eyes and nose, making him cough. Sanchez shielded his mouth with the lapel of his rumpled blue shirt until the worst of the debris had settled. In relatively short order the leather interior took on the same satiny dust covered finish as the exterior of the car. The well polished gun, meanwhile, never shifted away from the tense driver.

Neither of them said a word until Stan turned off the main road and into the tiny hard-packed ground of the Hidden Valley Campground parking area. Despite how busy the front lot by the visitors' center had been, there didn't appear to be anyone staying the night at this particular site. The lack of people made the picnic area all the more haunting in the deep blue light of evening. The abundant Joshua Trees, with their thick, furry-looking stubby branches curled toward the sky, only served to enhance the landscape's alien atmosphere.

Keeping the engine running, Stan put the car in park. He fervently prayed that he'd lived through this one. If he was lucky, this psycho would just get out and let him peel off into the night. He'd come back for the Quail Mountain treasure another day. Hell, he'd park the car back at the Texaco and _walk_ there if that's what it took. He just wanted to be heading in the opposite direction of Sanchez at that moment.

“Well, here we are.” Stan flicked on the high beams and illuminated the picnic area in a bleached whitewash. “Get out.”

“Oh, we're not there yet.” Stan heard the click of a metal cap being undone. Glancing surreptitiously to the right he saw Sanchez take a deep swig out of the flask from the other night, once again full of whiskey. He could tell by that oaky scent that wafted from it. With the flask clutched in the spindly fingers of his right hand Sanchez motioned toward the dark outline of a valley between two large mountains of boulders. “There. Drive through there. Down the trail.”

“I -”

“Shut it! J-Just-just shut up!” Sanchez shook his hands next to his head, the butt of the gun wagging dangerously close to his face. His eyes were screwed up in concentration as his frustration and mind raced against one another.

Stan kept his rigid posture hunched over the wheel. He was just waiting for this lunatic to snap; and Stan was sure that with his smarts, Sanchez would no doubt find the most unexpected way to do it too.

“Think about what you have to live for and then drive down the d-damn trail, kid!” Sanchez snapped as the muzzle pressed its cold snout above the smart-mouthed driver's brow. “I'm not fucking- God damn fucking around here, Junior.”

Years of juvenile delinquency had harshly taught Stanley how to judge the odds of a confrontation, and right now everything was stacked against him. If Sanchez wanted him to drive to a more secluded spot, then that's what they were going to do. He'd have to make his escape another way. Otherwise Sanchez was definitely going to kill him.

~+~+~+~

Stan knew how to handle his baby, but the trail was so damn slim between the rock piles that he had more than once scraped the body of the car against a boulder, and each time he could hear the screech of metal being forcibly reshaped. The sand, rocks and brush were scratching another generous amount of paint from the sides of the car. Not to mention the gut wrenching, agonizing squeal of sharp things against the veneer.

It was killing him to do this to his car, his home, his... wait, was the car really his best friend too? Was his life really that pathetic? Stan agonized over that momentarily as he kept looking down at the clock on the dashboard, wishing that this nightmare would end any second now. How far down the trail could they possibly go anyway?

The tall mounds of rock pressed in on them from all sides, barely allowing the Cadillac through. They ducked in between boulders the size of RVs and navigated around loose patches of sand that could mire the tires, but Sanchez still didn't give any signal to stop, facing forward with a bizarre mix of anticipation and apprehension fixed on his long, pointed features. At last they emerged from the labyrinth of rocks and took off for a short distance down a well packed, open patch of trail before coming up on another large cluster of boulders. This one had an entrance just wide enough for El Diablo to make it through, paint ruined and body knocking, into a wide clearing ringed by gigantic, solid behemoths of stone. Smaller boulders the size of cows were scattered haphazardly around, conveniently offering perfect cover from gunfire if Stan was so bold as to make a run for it. But now was not that time.

The crazy guy in the passenger’s seat began barking instructions. “Guess what? Get out of the car.” He nudged the muzzle towards the driver, motioning for Stan to get moving. “You're going to be doing some hauling, kid.”

Leaving only the battery on, Stan parked the car where it stood amongst the stones guarding the entrance to the clearing. The ivory white light of the high beams blasted against the surrounding area, casting an intense divide between the dusty yellow sand and the deep blue of the night. A pitiful hill rose before them cementing the dead center of the open space.

Both parties made sure that their hands stayed where they could be seen as Stan hauled himself out of the driver's seat. Getting out as well, Rick rounded the front of the car, his hand keeping a steady bead on his hostage's heart.

“The boxes in the back seat. Start with those. Bring them over to the top of the hill there.”

Stan leveled a murderous glare at the taller man as he slowly lowered his hands and petulantly jerked opened the back door. He briefly wondered if he could get away with throwing the nearest box and its contents at Sanchez, then making a break for it, but the weight of the box was monumental. How the other man had managed to lift it into the car in the first place was a complete mystery. It should have been impossible for him with his stick arms and legs.

“And if you drop it I swear to Christ I will shoot off your toes one by one.”

Stan's eyes darted over to Sanchez as he heard the thunk-click of a hammer being pulled back. Now was _definitely_ not the time to attempt a break for it. Stan had doubted the guy's bragging, but at that moment he was positive that Sanchez meant every word that he said. The madman’s eyes shone with a crazed light that was equal parts annoyance and impatience.

It took Stan longer than he wanted to admit to get all of the prick's fucking heavy shit out of his car. Maybe he could stand to stretch his legs more often on the road. To be fair though there had been, by necessity, a lot of trips back and forth. Sanchez had used every available crevice in the trunk to shove bundles of colored wires, boxes and bags of things that had felt squarish and sharp edged as they had bounced against Stan's ribs, and jugs of something iridescent and red that smelled both chemically and sweet at the same time.

There were even a few golf cart batteries tucked into the foot well behind the front seats. At last Stan stood up and leaned back to pop his spine into place. Trying to hide how tired he felt, the bulky teen leaned against the closed trunk in a way that he hoped looked casual.

“Well! That's the last of it.” He turned to glare with fake confidence at his captor, his arms crossing over his chest. “This has been super, but I'll just be on my way now.”

“Eh eh eh.” Rick tutted in a casual tone. He pushed himself up from a rock he had been leaning against. “Keys. Get them.”

Grudgingly Stan did as he was told. He thought of his gun stowed in the stowed arm rest of the back seat, hating that he hadn't put it in a more convenient place. Slipping the keys into the back pocket of his jeans, Stan stood up and turned to face Sanchez.

The bastard walked up to him and thrust out his palm. “Give them to me.”

Oh, hell no.

“Fuck no! No, no,” Stan emphatically gestured. He could feel his anger starting to override his self-preservation.

Rick's hand retreated to curl into a boney fist by his side. “Keys! Now!” Shrill desperation colored his complexion a deep shade of red that clashed horribly with his wild, white hair. He held the gun level at arms length to Stan's head, teeth grit and spit shining on his drawn lips. “I mean it, Pines!”

A smarter and less hotheaded man than Stanley Pines would have known that it would be best to just hand over the car and be thankful to be walking away at all. Even if it meant that the only thing he’d walk away with was his life. A less passionate man than Stanley Pines wouldn't have stood with his shoulders tight and back rigid, held his ground and growled out a definitive, “Fuck you, no!” before throwing himself at such an unpredictable opponent.

Stan pulled one his meat-hammer hands back to deliver a right hook square on the side Sanchez's head. What should have been a one hit knockout was only hindered by a simple fact that the teenager had momentarily forgotten.

He saw the flash of light, felt the stabbing impact and the hot spread of his blood filling his Converse before his brain caught up to the fact that Sanchez had just fired a bullet into the top of his foot. The moment of shock was all that the gangly prick needed to sidestep the other man. Stan's teeth clacked together as he impacted hard against the ground. There was going to be a huge bruise up and down his right arm and shoulder.

Doubled over in rising agony, Stan clutched desperately at his bloody foot. He felt nausea quickly rise in the back of his throat when his fingers slipped over the wet exit wound. “Aw, fucking seriously? Come on, fuck! _Fuck_! You crazy fucking bastard!”

“Up!” Said a surprisingly calm and commanding voice. Another bullet embedded itself in the ground next to Stan's head with a zipping sound, the dust kicking up and stinging his eyes. “Now!”

Defeated for the moment, Stan managed to get to his feet with only a minimal amount of wincing. Every ounce of his body screamed for vengeance, but he tampered down his fury at the very real prospect that this guy was deadly serious about ending his life.

“Get in the car.”

That was surprising, but Stan grudgingly complied. As he passed the bastard he felt a hand swipe into his pocket, clutching at the car keys. What last bit of potent fury he possessed was channeled into a backhanded sweep for Sanchez's head, but the guy was shockingly fast. He merely ducked out of the way, yet again defying Stan's aim. He was surprisingly coordinated too for such a beanpole. One swift kick to his core and Stan was stumbling back until his ass collided with the passenger side of the El Diablo. Great. More bruising. The ladies were going to just love that.

“Looking for these?” Rick held the Cadillac keys aloft, mockingly jingling them just out of Stan's reach, a malevolent smile stretched wide on his extremely punchable face.

“You-”, Stan panted. His brain stalled in rage, “wetback, son of a-”

Rick's grinning face quickly dropped into a hard look. “Ah, ah, ah.” The hammer in the gun menacingly clicked into place. “I said get in the car, Jimmy McLarnin.”

Stan narrowed his eyes in anger, generously seasoned with jarring confusion at the not-insult. Sanchez knew the all time great? That was-, was he a boxing fan? In his confusion, laced with self-preservation, his hand took over and opened the door. His body unceremoniously did the rest of the work and deposited Stan into the driver's seat. A click of metal sliding into place brought him sharply back to full consciousness. He dumbly lifted his left hand in numb disbelief. Handcuffed to the steering wheel? How.. when did, oh that's right. There was the small matter of the Looney Toon currently holding him at gun point.

“In case I need a ride back.” Rick pulled his hand back from the open window. The moonlight caught the shine of the metal handcuffs brilliantly in the deep blue evening light.

With that, the fucker turned around and went to the front of the car, popped the hood and started tinkering around. Stan swore at him and blared the horn, yelling at him to leave his car alone. Sanchez merely disconnected the horn, leaving Stan to sputter and fume ineffectively to himself.

Stan understood what Rick's plan was as soon as the headlights once again lit up the surrounding area. He had hot-wiring the car. It wouldn't be able to shift gears, the engine wouldn't turn over, and might not even register now if anyone put the keys in the ignition. Sanchez had most likely bricked his car. With the area illuminated Rick bounded over to some of the boxes Stan had unloaded. Whatever his end game was he was clearly anxious to get to work.

Stan, resigning himself to his situation, reached over into the glove box and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, one of which he lit and inhaled deeply. If anything, now was the time to use his precious stash. Leaning forward he crossed his arms on the top of the steering wheel and rested his chin on his sun roasted flesh. He tried not to think about how he could feel his heartbeat pounding in his foot, of the wetness and stickiness of the blood flooding his shoe. He heaved a long sigh, smoke billowing out of his nostrils, and settled in for what promised to be a long night.

~+~+~+~

1:00 AM

Plumes of green tinted smoke curled toward the sky from the myriad of flasks duct taped to the pyre Rick had erected in the last thirty minutes. Glowing in strange ambiance, the pile of chemistry and computer science pulsed in the low starlight. What wasn't blanketed by the car's hot-wired headlights was cast in iridescent purple. What evaded the light given off from the sparking generator cobbled together halfway between the nearest boulder and the El Diablo's engine was now deep ultramarine.

As the pile of bizarre technology reached for the curved skyline, Stan could only vaguely make out Sanchez's dark silhouette and longer shadow darting between the glow of the tower and the soft edge of the car's lights.

Stan was still pissed and his poor foot ached intensely, but he had to admit to being very impressed with the hodgepodge tower that was coming together nearby. Where Ford's inventions had a smoothed, polished completeness to them, this... whatever it was... seemed about ready to topple over and crush its piece of shit creator.

It was an ugly monstrosity of reaching metal poles and looping wire. The feverishness with which the bastard moved was also in stark contrast to the genius Stan had grown up with. Ford wrote everything down with perfect penmanship and stored his notebooks with perfect chronological and topical precision. His dictations on any subject he found to be interesting were highly comprehensive, if meandering and written in code sometimes to prevent certain nosey brothers from reading and teasing him about the spontaneous and sometimes embarrassing thoughts which would pop into his head and be written down on the page.

At long last Sanchez slammed down a monitor at the base of the totem pole he had cobbled together and flopped back onto the ground, face up and panting. The face of the monitor glowed a dull greenish gray light over Sanchez's worthless carcass making him look like the corpse Stan wanted to turn him into. He appeared to be just staring at the mottled sky, watching the few wisps of clouds which skated across the otherwise brilliantly clear sky speckled with desert-bright stars.

2:00 AM

Nothing.

The smoke continued to curl lazily up to the sky, occasionally billowing into a big, soft mushroom shape whenever Sanchez refreshed the beakers with the fowl smelling old diesel canisters Stan had heaved out of the car. He was pacing relentlessly now, looping back and forth in front of the tower. The car's battery continued to faithfully and compliantly fuel the white glow reaching from the El Diablo over the clearing and into the night.

2:30 AM

Stan's eyelids were beginning to force their way down. His cigarette had long since burned down to the filter and been flicked out the window. He was tired. Exhausted, really, at the events of the last few days. He caught the evermore blurring figure of Sanchez dart down the hill to the sputtering generator. The light was fading in and out now, lulling Stan into an instantly hypnotic rhythm of ivory light fluctuating steadily between full life and darkness. He couldn't even bring himself to care that the car's battery was obviously dying. His mind stayed conscious long enough to register the swearing before he finally succumbed to sleep. Whatever was happening could wait ten minutes.

2:34 AM

What took place next, Stan could ever only remember in snippets. What should have woken him was the bright, ever expanding ring of trichromatic sequenced lights descending from the sky and blotted out anything else but the clearing itself. What actually brought him to shaky consciousness was the tremendous thud of a boarding party ship touching down right before his eyes. Decades later when he thought back to that night, the first thing he always remembered, aside from abject terror, was the sharp sound of what he would come to know as a positron harpoon gun going off. Next were the blurry black figures obscured by sleep and brilliant white background light. The descent up had been even more terrifying if at all possible, but when all was said and done he couldn't bring himself to fully regret any of the things he did from that point on.

 


	6. And Then They Were There

**The Best Bad Influence**

Chapter Six: And Then They Were There

Written by BadabingBoogeyTheSecond

Edited by Nanianela

“I met her in a club down in North Soho,”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry cola.”

_One-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“C-O-L-A cola.”

_One-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

_It was a nice night out to bum a ride._

_It was not too warm, and the stars they shined shouting_

“ _Join us. J-j-j-j-join us. J-j-j-j-join us-.”_

Those stars that shouted in E-major looked so close he could touch them, just like they had looked last night up on the roof of the barn. He hungrily ached to be up there among those stars and their 16th notes.

_To be one of those stars that grace the sky_

_And to learn the secrets that they held on high_

_He would go there. Oh-oh-oh-to go there. Oh-oh-oh-to rule there._

Technically he was already standing on what was a star to billions of beings millions of light years away, but he, Rick Sanchez, needed a change of perspective. He wanted Earth to be twinkling back at him, begging him to come back home, not anchoring him down like a dead weight.

If only the god damn, mother fucking company representatives would get there already! And if only he could shake the song he had stuck on a relentless loop in his head!

Ever since the visitor center parking lot he had been hearing “Lola” playing over and over with Ray Davie's addictive but annoying as fuck refrain running circles in his brain. Why he’d gotten such a bad case of stuck song syndrome he had no idea, although he suspected it had something to do with the tapping of the hose as it had gone down into the Pines kid’s cherry red Cadillac. It wasn't hard for the tap-tap-tap-tap of the hose going into the car to change to a 4/4 time signature. Couple this with the charged eye contact they had shared and suddenly all he could think about was mother fucking “Lola”.

But tonight he needed speed and a tonal aggression, like The Sonics’ “Psycho”. Or something more like the stuff The Kinks put out in the mid 60’s. Something more “All of the Day and All of the Night”, and less like The Velvet Underground’s “Pale Blue Eyes”. None of this slow, thinking-too-hard, rough-times dreck. He was practically vibrating with anticipation of meeting his off-world business partners. He wanted to hear something that would mirror his mood. But no. What he had was “Lola”.

Where they fuck _were_ they? The presumably-male person he'd been in contact with had been very, very clear about when they would meet him, and very precise in their description of the global position at which they would rendezvous. Rick had continent jumped twice and couch surfed through three university dorms and one former professor's barn to be here tonight. He'd be picking hay out of his hair and clothes for days thanks to that last stop, thank you very much Stanley “Roger” Pines.

Speaking of said kid, Rick looked over at the generator's power source, aka that out of date jalopy that Shorty was driving. From this distance he couldn't make out much of anything behind the double glare of the high beams, but he could see the curls of blue-gray cigarette smoke easing out of the driver's side window. The cherry brightened momentarily before being flicked out onto the cool, sandy ground. Good, still conscious and alive enough to smoke. He didn't want his ride to bleed out if the whole thing turned out to be a bust.

The Pines kid didn't seem like a bad guy all in all. He was easy to read as a simple, but likable, opportunist. There didn't seem to be more to him other than getting from point A to point B as fast as possible, but even if the guy lacked complexity, his taste in music was supremely solid. Or maybe it had just been too long since he'd come across another man who could keep up with him on the topic of musicians and band history.

“Well that's the way that I want it to stay”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“And I always want it to be that way for my Lola”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“Lo- lo- lo- lo- Lola”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

And besides, Junior over there was still useful to him. He'd shot him in the foot, sure, but Rick would bet dollars to authentic Plutonian plutonium that he could still charm more of that mid-range whiskey off of him. Better to bum than to pay for it, right? Maybe even more if the guy's reaction to the gas siphoning “incident” was anything to go by.

Rick was 74.38% certain that the kid was a lizard anyway. Live the balls-deep, transient life Rick had been experiencing lately and you got really good at spotting a truck stop whore when you saw one. He certainly had that worn-in look of a roadster getting by and getting high by any means necessary. He knew the type: still young and charming, hair swept back in a barely out of date close cut that was growing just a tad too long in the back, and moving with a swarthiness that wasn't yet pot bellied and whiskey dicked due to a lifetime of hard kicks to the balls.

Not a bad look, honestly, Rick mused to himself. The red and white letterman jacket was a good touch, too.

Still, there remained an underlying failure that Rick's mind kept gnawing at - the musician had seriously misread the kid’s age. Really, he should have keyed in to how young Pines obviously was, especially after the kid had mentioned listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival's “Green River” on FM back when the radio DJs had exclusive early release coverage of the new album. That had been late June 1969. Rick remembered because that had been a big coke, music theory, and particle physics year for him, and he could remember having a very interesting exchange of letters between himself and John Fogerty.

They had talked extensively about the musical inspiration behind the 1960s, and had gotten into a heated conversation about the subversiveness of drug culture. Rick had argued that altered states were merely an underappreciated form of consciousness that had been vilified into a cliché. Fogerty had argued that it was counterproductive to always be in a state of drug induced allegedly-musical inspiration. Rick countered that consistent drug use could still be done in beneficial regimens with productive results. Fogerty had called him a delusional addict harboring dangerously numbing ideas. Rick had bit back that Fogerty was a small-time rockabilly apologist incapable of evolving past 1955. Point being, only high schoolers listened to Creedence Clearwater Revival because their parents considered it a suitable compromise between their own rebellious youths and the sharp new edginess of rock and roll.

The more he thought about Pines, the more things he realized he should have noticed, but he’d been too caught up in talking music and toying with the other man. Idiot. Stan’s jaw and chin were a little too sloped and rounded to qualify as fully filled out yet, but the sharpness of the bones even underneath the baby fat was what had thrown him off. It looked like he’d have one hell of a jawline once he’d aged up a bit. And now that he thought about it, acne of that abundance should have clued him into the fact that he couldn’t have been any older than twenty-one. But that cocky look in his eyes, damn, it had been projected so well! He held himself with a confidence that belied much more experience than anything a typical eighteen-year-old could master. Even if it was all fake swagger, the kid was so damn convincing that even Rick Sanchez, the well-traveled self-proclaimed super genius troubadour that he was, had believed it to be real.

The lanky man gave a snort and shrugged his shoulders as he read the oscillating green arc of the signal strength on the monitor. Whatever. Sure Stan was fun to tease, but inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Rick had no doubt that he wouldn’t even remember the kid’s name a few weeks down the road.

2:00 AM

Rick paced back and forth around the tower in agitation, his eyes trained on the sky for any unusual movement. Five more minutes. He'd give them five more minutes.

2:05 AM

“Well, I'm not the world's most passionate guy”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-and-a, four-e-_

“But when I looked in her eyes...”

_and-a, One-e-and-a, two-..._

They were an hour and five minutes late.

He could forgive that, Rick decided as he knelt down to pour more of the caustic liquid into the beakers encircling the tower. The thick red rubber gloves he wore squeaked obnoxiously as his hands worked to keep the tower's signal going. As the new fuel was added to each glass Pyrex flaska noxious cloud belched up into the air, flinging out tiny droplets of the concoction. Some of the corrosive red liquid landed on Rick's arm, causing him to swear as the fuel quickly began eating through his already filthy blue button up shirt. The tremble in his hands was getting worse, and despite the clear, cool evening he was sweating profusely. Being as focused on his task as he was he'd gone a good three hours with only a whisper of alcohol streaming through his system. If he wanted to be as efficient and careful as he needed to be, he'd better take a drink soon. Otherwise he'd start tripping over himself as he worked and generally being less than coordinated for such delicate work. Slippery, sweaty palms were a huge hazard when working with glass, as well as hacked together electrical wiring.

Carefully setting the metal canister of rocket fuel down on a nearby low, flat rock, Rick's quivering hand reached into his back pocket for his flask. His stomach protested violently at only being filled with whiskey, but Rick didn't pay any attention to that. He tilted his head back, draining the flask and sighing as he could feel hunger, thirst and the shakes slowly release their grip on him. Exhaling heavily out of his nose, Rick snapped his eyes open again and picked up the canister. He worked quickly to fill the rest of the narrow mouthed Erlenmeyer flasks, his hands growing steadier and steadier as the minutes ticked by. At last he had topped off the final glass. If this worked out then an hour and five minute wait would be totally worth it.

He'd give them fifteen more minutes.

2:28 AM

“I pushed her away,”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“I walked to the door”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“I fell to the floor,”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“I got down on my knees”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

“I looked at her, and she at me”

_A-one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a, three-e-and-a, four-e-and-a_

God damn it, enough with “Lola”! Rick obsessively raked his hands along his scalp as he paced back and forth around the tower. He demanded that his brain think about something, _anything_ , other than this horrific loop of “Lola”.

All of his usual methods for changing the score in his head were failing. He tried to think about how he could improve Fermilab’s Tevatron, but “Lola” persisted. He thought simultaneously in PASCAL, UNIX and C while trying to write a song to express the ingenuity that was Blaise Pascal and Dennis Ritchie’s programming languages. “Lola”, although much quieter during that brainstorm, was still annoyingly present like a campus cop circling back to drive slowly past a fraternity party.

Rick was getting desperate. He’d even take fucking Hoyt Axton’s dumbass kid song “Joy to the World” at this point. Fucking pop songs with their happy-go-lucky candy floss Beach Boys lyrics and their complete lack of message other than, “Happy! Happy! Happy!”, puked up and pumped out by those fuck wads at Warner Music Group!

Rick viciously kicked a few small rocks as he sulked, watching it fly through the air and bounce into some shrub brush. The raging helped vent some of his mounting frustration, but did nothing to halt the song. Rick hated, absolutely abhorred, being passive. He was not one for watching and waiting around for someone or something else to make a move. Being held hostage by his own brain was by far the worst kind of passiveness. Furious with the familiar inability to reign in the music in his head, the lanky man jogged down the low hill and over to the modestly sized generator. As he approached the buzzing machine Rick was relieved to hear “Lola” fade into the background, overpowered as it was by the loud mechanical whir of the tower's power source.

The machine, located halfway up the hill between the car and the tower, had been a bitch to assemble. Not only had Rick needed to build it out of scavenged parts, but it shouldn't even have been necessary in the first place. Rick had known all along that he would need the 580Nm of torque encased in the engine of the kid's Cadillac. The four golf cart batteries he'd boosted from down south at Pebble Beach Golf Links weren't going to do him much good as tower-feed unless he hooked them up to a longer lasting source.

Thus, the need for a car. The original plan was to force Pines to unload the car, chase him off, then drive the Cadillac up to the base of the tower in order to pull power directly from the car's engine via an insulated, industrial power cord he had “borrowed” from a lab back at West Coast Tech. The car _should_ have been surrendered immediately upon request, according to Rick's assessment of Stanley Pines. But that had been yet another miscalculation.

Rick could smell a reflex-liar. Not that he was hypocritical enough to classify that bit of information as a character flaw. Being able to make up a cover story on the spot had saved Rick's neck more times than he could remember. Duping idiots was par for the course on the road, but how good was Stan at lying to himself? Was he really going to convince himself that he could take on a guy a full head taller than himself pointing a loaded gun squarely at his chest? Yes, apparently he was that delusional. And apparently his technique was just as straight forward as Pines himself. He had charged and Rick had shot. It was funny - Pines' willingness to take a bullet for a car he apparently only had a loose ownership of. Rick filed away that thought for further consideration at a later date. Right now he needed to deal with the pale smoke emitting from the generator.

It wasn't an aesthetically pleasing creation, but there was only so much Rick could do with scrap and components of various household appliances. Kneeling down on the rough sand, he dug through an improvised tool kit next to the modestly sized machine. Socket wrenches, copper wire, twine, duct tape, and various pliers and sizes of drill bits were all piled haphazardly into a plastic bucket Rick had nicked from the farm last night. As he reached over for a set of wire strippers, the ground shifted inconveniently underneath him. Rick stumbled, lurching forward, but as one hand landed on the loose ground the other slapped down on the sharp edge of the generator's paneling. The resulting skin laceration and swelling pain caused Rick to vehemently and creatively swear vengeance against all machine kind.

He had a job to do, however, and couldn't let a little thing like this stop him. He was here to get off of this rock **tonight**. He had no other destination waiting for him.

Efficiently wrapping his left hand in an oil rag pulled from the bucket, Rick got back to work. The wound throbbed fiercely beneath the filthy cloth, but Rick was determined. And stubborn. And he wasn't too hypocritical to deny that he was ostentatiously introverted, and a little desperate at this point. As if on cue, the bright off-white light of the Cadillac's headlights surged as the engine emitted a revved moan. The plaintive message was clear - the car's fuel level had dipped into nothing but fumes. Rick had bypassed the circuits connecting the startup tasks of the engine to the drive shaft. As it stood the car would run indefinitely without the need for a key in the ignition until either the battery died or the car ran out of gas.

A surge like that thought could only mean the fuel tank was running on empty. The red coupe Deville had about an hour of life left within it.

Sweat unrelated to his blood-alcohol content pressed out of Rick's forehead, dampening his cheek and staining the lapels of his shirt. A cold rush fell through him. An engine he could patch, chemical flasks on the tower he could fill with more fuel, but if the signal died with the car he'd have no choice but to burn the tower. Part of him wanted to quit and just do it – burn the tower in a fit of cathartic rage and force Pines to drive him as far back to the Wilde's farm as he could with what little power was left in the El Diablo. Watching massive tongues of flame lick the janky tower black and crispy would be so very therapeutic. There was no way could he disassemble and reload the car by himself without the use of a backhoe like the one his fellow scientists had had at the farm. And Stan was practically useless now that the idiot had gone and forced Rick to put a hole in his foot.

Or he could gamble and let the tower send a signal for as long as there was gas in the tank, burn the machinery once the last pulse was sent, and if no one showed up by then, he would leave Pines handcuffed to the wheel and make the walk back to the Wilde farm. What happened to the kid after Rick left would be up to him. That option seemed more satisfying to his misdirected ire. If Pines was half as good at improvisation as his stories purported, then he'd figure out the trick to dislocating his thumb way before he died of dehydration or blood loss.

With a single-minded determination, Rick pulled a pair of pliers and pried off the upper vent hood (which had formerly been above a kitchen stove). The whirr of the machine was nearly deafening without the insulation of the protective panel. Looking into the jumble of machinery, Rick spied the problem. Within the gap between the improvised exhaust system and the motor was a loose wire thrashing within a four centimeter gap. Blue sparks arced delicately from the tip of the exposed copper whenever the wire came within contact distance of the surrounding machine. With each flash a pungent flare of smoke would curl up and press into the outside air, curdling the evening with ozone.

He had to be careful. If his hand went too far to the right he'd burn himself on the motor, and any motion too far to the left would put his hand into the blurring blades of the “fan”. The needle nose pliers seemed like the best option for this. Having dug them out of the toolkit Rick threaded his right hand into the machine. He could feel the wind of the fan pulling the fine hairs on the back of his hand in the direction of the blades. His palm sweat as it glided just above the hot vibrating steel of the motor. The pliers in his hand slid ever so slightly in his grip as he inched closer and closer to the wire lashing around in the breeze.

He had to be very careful to clamp the pliers onto a portion that was still insulated. If the metal made contact with the live current the whole setup could short circuit. Which was why he had to time it just... right. Success! With the wire in the tip of the plier's grip all he had to do now was- ZAP! Connected for a split second by a bead of sweat that had run down his hand, over the pliers, onto the wire and just far enough down the blue plastic insulation to reach the stripped copper, a surge of white hot electricity jumped up to Rick's hand and straight through his arm. His muscles jerked, throwing his arm up into the air and releasing his grip on the metal tool.

As if in slow motion Rick watched with widening eyes and mounting terror as the pliers fell into the generator. A horrendous grind of metal buckling against material was followed by a spray of sparks, a great flash of light as the internal workings of the machine ground to a disastrous halt. Rick scrambled backwards over the ground, putting distance between himself and the billowing cloud of smoke that rose out of the generator as it seized, then died. The lights of the tower and the car flashed spastically as unchecked energy surged along the wires on the ground and up through the tower. The car's engine roared. The buzz of electricity in the signal tower rose to a high, whiny thrum. As the life drained from the generator the tower seemed to sag as its lights too sputtered momentarily and then fell into darkness.

Rick couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. After everything that he had done. After everything he had been through to get to this exact geographical coordinate tonight, and what did he have to show for it.

Rick felt like he should be crying, or screaming, or flailing his entire body around in absolute rebellion against this abject failure of a night. Instead, he just fell back on the cold ground and stared out into the sky in utter disbelief. Something. There had to be something he could do. Rick crushed his eyelids together and brought his right fist up to press against his grimy forehead. His teeth grit into a grimace as his mind raced. His left hand unconsciously rose up and desperately tried to reach for the twinkling array of satellites, planets, suns and moons like he had last night up on the barn. They had seemed so close when he had been thirty feet in the air on a cold tin roof, but now here he was - filthy, flat on his back in the dirt, feeling the gravitational pull of this prison of a planet like he never had before.

Letting his arms flop back into the dust, Rick sighed. Maybe if he could push the car up the hill. That way he just might be able to bypass the generator and run a cable from the tower down directly in the engine like- here Rick paused. What he had thought was a twinkling satellite trekking across the desert sky was steadily growing larger. That had to be them. It just had to be. And it was about god damn time, too!

A deep purple and green flashing ball quickly began to take on the shape of a space-to-ground vehicle. It was streamlined and silver, not exactly what Rick had been expecting based on his limited information of the people he was to meet with tonight. That didn't really matter though.

Rick shielded his eyes and mouth from the bright light and dust that was thrown off from the swiftly descending teardrop shaped transport vessel. For a space-to-ground vehicle size of the ship was astounding. From where he stood just off slightly from the direct center of the clearing he could barely see anything but the rounded bottom of the ship. The ship's base eclipsed practically everything above and outside of the ring of stones bracketing the desert clearing. Soon enough even the little sliver of night sky that divided the top of the circles stone perimeter from the curve of the ship's base was squeezed out.

Smooth and brilliantly clean from its fiery trip through the Earth's stratosphere, the silvery metal radiated out from an unassuming circle at the dead center of the ship's base. In the oscillating lights that ringed the widest part of the ship's girth the metal took on a purple tone, then a green tinge, switching back and forth at a measured, precise pace.

He couldn't help the victorious grin that split across his face as the ship hovered several hundred feet above the clearing. Rick cringed as his retinas were burned briefly when the whole area was bathed in a blinding white light that zeroed down into a two foot wide patch ten feet from Rick's feet.

This was it. Rick watched in growing excitement as the patch of light took on an almost solid appearance. Tiny stones caught in the cascade of light beating onto the ground began to levitate and glide slowly up a few inches.

A directed elevator of anti-gravity energy. Rick had known it was possible, but actually seeing that level of technology in action was beyond thrilling - it was absolutely astounding! This kind of technology went well beyond anything he had seen in any of his dealings with the other two alien races of his home solar system. Martians and Plutonians both used simple metal ramps of various colors that pretentiously extended at a snails pace from their equally boring saucer shaped ships. Squinting against the intense white light Rick stepped back as he saw three fuzzy figures begin to drift slowly down the column. Rick's whole body buzzed. It was a heady feeling to see all of his work contacting the galactic visitors come to this tipping point. It had all payed off. They were finally here, and now Rick could ditch all of his Earth bound baggage.

2:34 AM

There was a soft “pat” sound as the towering bipedals touched down on Earth's soil. At long, long last the aliens he had waited all night for were there before him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic wouldn't be happening without the feedback of many people. Some who didn't know this was a work of fanfiction, some who knew and reveled in that fact, and some who knew it was fanfic but still were willing to offer their advice to this work as a piece of science fiction insanity. To everyone who inspired and/or enabled me, thank you :)
> 
> A special thanks to the incredible beta reader/editor Nanianela for all of her hard work and time whippin this fic into shape!


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